Professional Boundaries
by ureshiiichigo
Summary: John is a recently graduated PhD student teaching his first class at the University of Colorado, Boulder. Sherlock is a college freshman who moved to the United States three years ago. John is happy to have such an enthusiastic student, but he's starting to wish Sherlock didn't come to *every single one* of his office hours. He's scaring off the other students. Johnlock college!AU.
1. Regular Expressions

**Author's Notes**

_Hey all! Thanks for checking out my story! This is the first novel I've ever written, and the first fan fic I started working on, back in April of this year (but not the first to get published!). There will be 18 chapters and an epilogue, and I'm planning on posting every other day._

_I graduated from CU Boulder with a degree in Computer Science, so that's where most of my knowledge of the college and the town come from, as well as computer science and academia in general. I know next to nothing about biology, though, so all those parts were researched._

_Thanks for the reviews - it means a lot to me to hear your feedback!_

**Acknowledgements**

_Many, many thanks to my beta/writing mentor, **percygranger**. This was my first story and she was super patient with all of my questions. She was instrumental in whipping this story into shape! Check out her Sherlock & White Collar fanfiction on livejournal or AO3._

_**numberthescars **also deserves great thanks for being my secondary beta - not only correcting plenty of SPAG errors, but also helping with my chapter endings and sentence construction. The first few chapters were Britpicked by **they_regrey** and **korearabin**. Thanks go out to them as well._

_Finally, thanks very much to **numberthescars** for the art! You can see it full-size on her livejournal: **numberthescars** dot **livejournal** dot **com** slash **18153** dot **html**_

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**Chapter 1: Regular Expressions**_

Peering into the dirty bathroom mirror, John adjusted his collar, smoothed down his sandy brown hair, and checked to make sure there was nothing in his teeth. Perhaps his fly was down. He checked, again, and found that it was still up. He was fine. He looked fine. Everything was fine. His blue eyes peered back worriedly at him in the mirror despite his reassurances.

He had gone to the bathroom three times this morning already, but, as the minute hand crept closer to 9am, he had glimpsed several students staring at him as he paced through the halls of the prison-like engineering center. His walking cane made muffled thumps with each step across the well-worn carpet.

He sighed, hunched over the sink, his hands gripping the ceramic, knuckles starting to turn white with the pressure. He looked old. It was terrifying to come back here as a teacher. The cane and limp didn't help matters. He was probably too old to pass for a PhD student, even, and he winced at the thought.

John checked his watch again and felt a brief surge of relief. The numbers 8:51 blinked back at him. Finally, the 8am lecture would be leaving his classroom, and he could go in and set up his laptop. He exited the bathroom, checking to see if anyone was in the hall, and took the stairs as quickly as he could. He walked briskly over to the lecture hall, cane tapping on the laminated floor as he went. When he opened the doors, the last professor was still at the front, chatting with a small group of students about scheduling issues.

"Dr. Watson!" a friendly voice boomed out at him. Greg Lestrade, his PhD adviser - no, his colleague, he corrected - had been teaching the 8am class in the lecture hall before him. "You have this room next? Let me get out of your way. Anyone who needs to discuss being on the wait-list, follow me to my office and we'll get you sorted out."

The grey-haired professor beamed at John as he exited, trailed by a group of ungainly teenagers. John wished he could recognize the age difference between 18 and 22, but they all just looked "young" at this point. For all he knew they were graduate students. He'd have to ask Greg on Wednesday what the class was. 8am classes usually didn't attract freshmen.

The first student walked in while John was still setting up the projector. He was pale, tall, and thin with messy dark hair and a scowl on his face. He looked about fifteen, though he must be older. John tried to manage a pleasant smile, but the student ignored him, turning back to his cell phone and texting furiously. John made a mental note to mention his policy on cell phones in the class. He secretly hoped someone would make the mistake of leaving their ring tone on so he could make an example of them.

John stood at the front, leaning on his cane. He watched as students filtered in, leaving the front row almost completely empty. At 9:00am sharp, John took a deep breath, smiled widely, and addressed the room.

"Good morning, and welcome to CSCI 1300, 'Introduction to Programming for Non-Computer Science majors.' I'm Dr. John Watson and I'll be your instructor this semester."

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock collapsed on his bed and let out a dramatic sigh. He missed England, even after three years of living in the United States. He wondered briefly if he wouldn't have been better off at Oxbridge. Mummy would have thrown a fit, though. And it wasn't as if he had any friends in England. Here at CU, at least Mycroft could get him out of trouble, even if he was a poncy git about it. There were advantages to knowing the associate dean of the engineering college. Especially when he was your older brother.

Sherlock had opted to get a single occupancy dorm room, and he was exceedingly glad of the privacy to conduct his chemistry experiments in peace. Mycroft had informed him with a frown that dorm policy forbade Bunsen burners, much less hydrochloric acid, as if that would somehow discourage him.

He slid his laptop out of his shoulder bag and opened it on the desk. The course website for his computer science class was still up, and he glanced over the timetable. The first few weeks looked frustratingly simple, but some of the later practice exercises were intriguing. Perhaps this course wouldn't be a complete waste of time. He had been somewhat pleasantly surprised by the instructor of the class - he had expected someone fatter, or older, or less pleasant. Dr. Watson had been, well, charming. His dry sense of humour and easy-going attitude immediately put the students at ease. Sherlock had also noticed that the few girls in the class (as well as a few of the boys; he made a mental note of them) were paying extra attention to their teacher. The ill-fitting blazer didn't do Dr. Watson any favours, but the trousers seemed to fit him rather well.

Not that Sherlock was one of the ones paying a bit too much attention. He was simply keeping his observational skills sharp. Obviously. Sherlock forced his mind away from that train of thought.

Sherlock was certainly interested enough to do a bit of research. He searched for the man's personal website and after several minutes digging through the multitude of useless results - John Watson was a rather common name, after all - finally found something promising. The main page of the site had what looked like a Curriculum Vitae, with a few pictures of the man dressed in a jumper and jeans standing in front of a mountain range. The cane was missing, and Sherlock wondered how old the photograph was. It appeared to have been taken on campus, so possibly whilst the man had still been an undergrad. But that would have been almost eight years ago, and he hadn't looked that much older in person. Out of curiosity, he checked the image URL and saw the name of the file was _JohnPortrait2004 _- eight years ago, indeed.

Sherlock noted with interest that the man's PhD had been on the topic of computational biology. His undergraduate degree looked like a pre-med program that would indicate interest in becoming a doctor. He briefly wondered why someone interested in medicine would end up going into computer science. Biology and computing seemed like fairly disparate fields.

He thought of picking the lock on Dr. Watson's office and waiting for him to return, but Mycroft had threatened to stop his supply of body parts for experimentation unless he promised to observe his professors' office hours. He wasn't sure why Mycroft had been so insistent. Teachers were supposed to help their students when asked, weren't they? Still, it wouldn't do to disrupt a perfectly good source of thumbs. Perhaps it would be worth visiting Dr. Watson during his office hours.

.x.x.x.x.x.

On Tuesday, John woke up early and headed over to his office on campus to do some work. He'd set his office hours for Tuesday and Thursday from 10am-12pm and 1pm-3pm, since he figured he'd be there anyway and he'd always appreciated flexible office hours as a student. He was only an instructor, not a tenure-track professor, so he needed to do research whenever he wasn't grading or prepping for class. The morning passed quickly enough reading through some research papers. John had gotten back from lunch and was just about to start writing up a grant proposal when he heard a knock on his closed door. He was more than a little surprised - he hadn't expected anyone to come into his office on the first day.

He got up to answer the door and after a moment recognized the student as the lanky brunet from his first lecture, looking vaguely bored. He was wearing a button-up purple collared shirt, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and tailored black slacks. He looked much older than the high-schooler he had resembled yesterday in his jeans and t-shirt.

"Hi, are you here for the office hours?"

"Obviously," he snapped, barging in past John, his eyes darting around the office.

"Uh. Right. Did you need to switch to a different section? Or do you have questions about the course material?"

"You're interested in biology."

"What?" John was caught off-guard by the non-sequitur.

"Your book selection, your wall calendar, and your desk all contain more references to biology than computer science." John thought he could detect an accent (although John was admittedly terrible at identifying accents). The boy picked up a stuffed blob on John's desk. "Cold virus?"

"Erm, yeah. Fun to toss at people. They usually catch it." John grinned at the pun. "You're in my 9am section, right? What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes." There was definitely an accent. English, maybe. The boy looked at him intently, apparently sizing him up. "You didn't mention your military service on your website."

"Wait, what? How did you know-"

"That's how you supported yourself through your undergraduate career, isn't it? And you were even deployed, though I imagine after sustaining an injury and getting discharged you reconsidered your career and decided to pursue a doctorate degree."

John's mouth fell open in shock. Realizing he must look like an idiot, he blinked and shut his jaw with a snap.

"But I didn't come here to discuss your participation in the armed services. Tell me about your thesis. It sounded… interesting. Why computer science?"

John finally regained control of his mouth and stuttered out a response. "My thesis?"

"Yes, your thesis." Sherlock looked annoyed. "If I am to endure these pointless freshman classes I may as well learn something."

John frowned at the boy in front of him, who had now fixed him with a piercing gaze that didn't feel right for an eighteen year old. With his deep voice, British accent, elegant clothes, and unsettling stare, he was certainly different from any college student John remembered. He had no idea how much background Sherlock had in biostatistics or computing, but if this brash student acted like he knew what he was doing, John would enjoy seeing if he actually did. John smoothly launched into a technical description, more appropriate in this case than the usual spiel.

"My thesis was more computer science than biology. I developed several algorithms to more effectively solve and model non-linear equations, specifically those associated with blood flow in and around the heart. It's useful to be able to accurately model hearts for, say, creating artificial heart replacements, or planning surgeries." He paused, but Sherlock still looked mildly interested, so he added, "I came up with some sample problems representing fluid dynamics, and implemented my algorithm to solve them. And I provided some timing metrics to determine how efficient mine was compared with some of the other standard algorithms." He eyed the younger man appraisingly. "So how much of that did you actually understand?"

"Enough. So why did you decide to go to graduate school after coming back from, what, Iraq? Afghanistan?"

John blinked, dumbfounded. "Afghanistan. How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock just smirked. "If I told you how I knew, that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn't it?"

John's laugh seemed to startle the boy so he attempted to constrain himself to a wry grin. "I suppose it would. I went to graduate school because I wanted to help people. I thought that computer science research and biological modeling was the best way to learn how to cure diseases, improve surgeries, that sort of thing. And it's something I'm good at. I didn't have a hope of becoming a doctor after," he caught himself, "well, after I got back. And I thought that teaching others would also be a good way to help people. So I thought I could accomplish both goals by getting my PhD. I can still tell my family I'm a doctor this way." He smiled, trying to keep any trace of bitterness from his expression.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. "I would like to talk to you sometime about your research interests, if you wouldn't mind. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, Professor."

"Yes, I'll - Sherlock, was it? I'll see you tomorrow, Sherlock."

And with that the young man turned briskly on his heel and strode out the office door. Bemused, John glanced at the clock and saw it was already after three. He decided he'd been in the office long enough for one day. He had to wake up early tomorrow, after all.

.x.x.x.x.x.

On Thursday morning John got to his office a little later than normal. He'd suffered a late night dealing with one of Harry's increasingly frequent drunken phone calls, and hadn't felt motivated enough to get out of bed when his 6:00 alarm went off. After groggily procuring Earl Grey from the Celestial Seasonings shop in the engineering lobby, he clomped over to the elevator and hobbled to his office. He'd spent an hour puttering about his office when he heard a knock on his door. He glanced at the clock and noticed that it wasn't even ten yet; his office hours didn't start for another five minutes. With a shrug, he headed over to answer the knock.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to see Sherlock standing there. Today he was dressed in another dress shirt, a creamy off-white that shimmered in the fluorescent light, and tailored charcoal grey slacks with a suit jacket to match.

He frowned as he remembered the outfit he'd seen him wear during class: distressed jeans and a threadbare t-shirt again. Replete with his plush leather laptop bag swinging from one shoulder, he had looked every inch the artsy college freshman, much like the rest of the student body. The suit he was currently wearing seemed out-of-place in the Boulder campus.

"Yes, I do tend to wear different outfits when I attend classes. I've found that blending in with the herd is useful sometimes."

John grinned ruefully. Was he really that obvious? "Well, you look nice in the suits. So, what did you need? Come to ask more questions about biological computing?"

Sherlock shook his head and made a beeline for the ratty couch in John's office. John had wanted somewhere students could sit comfortably when they came to his office, so he'd recruited his teaching assistant, Molly, to help drag one of the hideous pink love-seats up from the computer science lab. Sherlock plonked himself down, stretched his legs out, and pulled out his laptop. "No, I'm just trying to take advantage of all my available resources, as they say," he remarked, his eyes glued to his laptop screen.

Well, it looked like Sherlock was just planning on hanging out. Unless some other students came up, John supposed it wasn't that big of a deal. He shrugged and turned back to his grant proposal.

The silence didn't last long. "I've written up a sample program and installed the supplemental materials, per the course website instructions. How do I get it to compile?"

John swiveled to face him. "Did you install Eclipse and Python, or just the libraries?"

Sherlock gave him a blank look.

John smiled and walked over to the couch, then knelt so he could look at Sherlock's screen. "Show me what you've installed. Since you have a Windows machine, I'd recommend you install Cygwin so you can easily access the Linux utilities that we have available in the CSEL - that's the Computer Science Educational Lab. It's where most of the computer science students spend their time."

Sherlock scrolled through the website, pointing out the pieces he'd already installed and looking vaguely annoyed when John pointed out something he'd missed. He showed John the computer program he'd written, and John smiled broadly, impressed. He couldn't see any syntax errors, and he already observed Sherlock implementing some of the more advanced concepts he was planning on teaching in the next few months - array variables, looping, conditional logic, functions, and includes. "So have you programmed before, then?"

"No. It seems simple enough, though."

John stared at Sherlock, disgruntled. He'd never programmed before? And written a nearly perfect prime number finder, without a compiler to track down errors? As far as he could tell, Sherlock was using Notepad to write the code. He shuddered at the thought.

"Okay, first off, we need to get you a decent IDE. That's short for Integrated Development Environment. It does things like syntax highlighting, debugging, that sort of thing, so you can verify your code is correct."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Why would I need to verify my code is correct? I'll just write it correctly the first time."

John laughed. "Yeah, that's what they all say. Unfortunately, it doesn't really work like that. Here, let's try Notepad++. It's lightweight and has syntax highlighting, but doesn't include a compiler. You can install Eclipse or something else later on, once we go over debugging."

After about an hour of installing tools and walking Sherlock through running his program, John returned to his desk and got back to grant writing. It was fairly mind-numbing, so he found himself turning to check on Sherlock fairly frequently. Now he saw a checkerboard popping up on Sherlock's screen. Apparently he'd discovered the graphics library and was playing around with drawing shapes.

Sherlock abruptly snapped his laptop closed, stood up, and stretched. "Enjoy your lunch, Dr. Watson."

John thought back on his first meeting with Greg, and how he had laughed at John's use of his surname. "You can call me John if you like. Dr. Watson sounds odd."

"All right. I'll see you in an hour, John."

Puzzled, John glanced at the clock and saw it was noon. Oh, his lunch break. Well, at least Sherlock hadn't tried to stay on his couch and stare at him while he ate his sandwich.

John spent most of the hour trying to figure out why he was so intrigued by Sherlock. He was unlike any other college freshman he'd ever met. The young man was arrogant, brusque, bright, and observant, that much John could see. Sherlock wore expensive-looking tailored suits when he visited John's office hours, but t-shirts and jeans when he came to class, apparently in order to go unnoticed. And he'd somehow decided that John was interesting enough to merit lounging about in his office programming, when every other freshman in his right mind would be either outside enjoying the sun or sleeping off a late night. But then, Sherlock didn't seem like every other freshman.

John, on the other hand, had been a pretty typical college student. It had been 12 years since he first stepped foot on this campus, bright-eyed and determined to prove himself, and hoping to have a good time while doing it. He looked back fondly on the drunken antics of those first few years of college.

The University of Colorado was known as a party school, but that wasn't the main reason John had gone there. Because his dad was in the military, John's family had moved frequently when he was growing up, and Boulder was the first place that had felt like home to him. His older sister Harry had transferred to CU after a year of community college and insisted that John would love it there, too. She'd taken him on a tour the week before her classes started, and although he'd been a bit overwhelmed, he knew the place felt right. He especially liked the library, grassy hills, old brick buildings, towering trees, and bikes and pedestrians roaming everywhere. He'd returned when he'd decided to do his PhD, and now that he'd finally gotten that all-important piece of paper, he was qualified to teach freshmen what he'd learned years ago in these same classrooms.

Not that it mattered; he was the one behind the desk now. There was no point in thinking of younger days.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock returned promptly at 1pm. The seventh floor of the office tower, where the computer science offices were located, tended to be quieter than other parts of the engineering center, but faint sounds of conversation drifted in from the undergraduate adviser's office and the faculty lounge. John had never liked absolute silence, so the faint murmuring was somehow comforting. Sherlock's presence seemed to add to that. John had expected to spend more time alone in his office, especially during the first few weeks, and it was nice to have someone here with him.

"Do you mind if I work on my chemistry assignment while I'm here?" Sherlock asked as he settled back on the couch.

"No, I suppose not. But if another student comes in, you should clear off, okay? I don't want to scare anyone away because they think I'm helping you."

"Well, I am rather frightening, I suppose."

John spent a few minutes trying to figure out if Sherlock had been joking.

"So how much chemistry did you take in your undergraduate work?" Sherlock asked without looking up.

"Just gen chem 1 and 2," John replied cheerfully, "since I was always more interested in biology. Which classes are you taking?"

"I skipped some of the earlier science and maths classes, as I have a fair number of credits from secondary school. I'm taking computer science, organic chemistry 1, psychology, third year French, violin, and calculus 3. I'm only auditing violin, though."

"Wow! How many credit hours is that?"

"Twenty."

"That's... ambitious. I don't think I ever took more than seventeen. Wait, you play the violin?"

"Yes."

John waited for an explanation, but, seeing that none was forthcoming, turned back to his work. He had barely begun when Sherlock interrupted again.

"So, I suppose you've been wondering how I knew you were in the ROTC."

"Well, yes, but you didn't seem to like my asking about it last time."

"Would you like to know?"

"Of course." John swiveled his chair to face Sherlock, giving him his full attention. Sherlock straightened up to face John and put his laptop on the seat next to him.

"Your stance, clothes, haircut, limp, and website all offered clues. The stance and haircut suggest military, but not current, since you're a bit more relaxed than someone currently in the Army, and you've let your hair grow out a bit. Your limp, though pronounced when you were pacing around the halls and entering the classroom, disappeared gradually as you stood in front of the class lecturing, indicating it's psychosomatic, and PTSD is the most likely cause of a severe psychosomatic limp." Sherlock paused, and an odd look fluttered across his features, before he noted John's bemused expression and continued. "Also, on your website there's a picture of you in front of the engineering centre, but your cane is missing. So, that must have been from before your injury. Since you don't look much older now than you do in the picture, it must have been relatively late in your undergraduate career. Also, you conveniently placed a year in the file name," Sherlock added, smirking, "so it was easy to verify."

"Amazing," John muttered, and Sherlock's smirk widened.

"I'm not done yet. Your clothes are simple, non-name brand, well-taken care of but clearly old. So you're not a wealthy man. The brand of deodorant you use-"

Alarmed, John blurted out, "Wait, how do you know what deodorant I use?"

"I can smell it. Now stop interrupting."

"Wait. You can... smell my deodorant? And identify the brand?"

"It's the same brand that Lestrade uses." Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued. "As I was saying, the brand of deodorant you use is a generic brand. You do not smell of sweat, though you appear to exercise frequently enough to keep up muscle tone, even with your limp. This would imply that you bathe frequently. Again, you care about hygiene, but you won't spend extra money; you are meticulous but not wealthy. These sorts of habits are usually established early on in life.

"You likely needed monetary support to get through college, and the military offers scholarships and officer positions through ROTC. Since you expressed interest in becoming a doctor, and your undergraduate work suggests pre-med, you likely became a medical officer, and were shipped out to Afghanistan to assist in the war effort. But, clearly, you were injured and sent home, since you started your PhD work only two years after you completed your bachelor's degree, and ROTC requires four years from scholarship recipients. I had to look that one up online," Sherlock added with a satisfied smile.

"Okay, so far you've got everything right."

"Of course I have. So you were injured abroad, and for some reason that ruined your chances of becoming a doctor - perhaps you were planning on becoming a surgeon, and the way your hand shakes sometimes would prevent that, I'd imagine. So you decided to go into computer science. An odd choice, so likely prompted by the suggestion of a friend or family member." Sherlock paused and almost looked embarrassed. "Mm, that's all I have so far. I'm sure I'll learn more as I continue to observe you."

John could feel himself grinning. "Wow, that was incredible."

"Really?"

"Yeah, that was amazing!"

"That's not what people normally say."

"Why, what do they usually say?"

"Go to hell." Sherlock's eyes crinkled up mirthfully. John just laughed.

After a pause, Sherlock abruptly stuffed his laptop into his shoulder bag and stood. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Nothing. I'll see you tomorrow… John."

"See you tomorrow, Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing. Instead, he simply flashed a cocky grin over his shoulder as the door slid shut. John's eyes lingered on the space where his student had been before turning back to his computer, traces of a fond smile on his lips.


	2. Function Definition

_**Chapter 2: Function Definition**_

Over the next few weeks, Sherlock started showing up regularly to John's office hours, always with the same pattern. In the morning, he would work on miscellaneous computer science projects and ask John for help with advanced topics or installation. In the afternoon, he would work on other homework and chat with John about whatever seemed to cross his mind. Once they had a conversation about grilled peanut butter sandwiches which left John with a strange craving for strawberry jam.

Four weeks after the semester started, on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday in late September, John fell victim to what would later come to be called throughout the computer science department as 'The Violin Incident'.

Sherlock came back into John's office at precisely 1pm, and John didn't pay him much attention until he heard a strange, surprisingly loud and unpleasant series of squawks from the direction of his couch.

"What the hell?!" John whirled around in his chair to see Sherlock was wielding his violin and bow like a weapon. Whenever he'd brought up Sherlock's violin, his student had been somewhat evasive, and he was starting to wonder if it was because Sherlock lacked the skill to actually play the damn thing. His current playing seemed to confirm this idea, sounding like a horde of cats being run over by a tractor.

"Stop that! What are you doing?"

Sherlock paused in his torture of the strings and raised an eyebrow. "Practising?"

"No, you're not. You're murdering the poor thing. Do you know how loud that is?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, John, I seem to have left my decibel meter at home!" Sherlock glared and waved his bow violently about. "I need to practise my violin this week, and you're always harping on at me about it. I'm sorry to have put you out." Sherlock looked not at all sorry, and very much irritated.

"I don't think you know the meaning of the word 'sorry'! Don't act like I'm the one being unreasonable!" By now John had stood up and started waving his cane around for emphasis.

It was in the midst of this shouting that a small cough came from the open door. "Uhm, sorry to interrupt…" Molly Hooper, one of the two teacher's assistants for John's class, stood in the doorway nervously. "It's just that the noise is disturbing some of the other professors and they were wondering if you could keep it down."

"Yes, Molly, I'm so sorry, it won't happen again." John winced apologetically as he rushed over. "Let me just close the door." John shooed Molly out gently and shut the door behind her.

"Ah, now that you've shut the door, I can resume," Sherlock declared as he started playing again.

"No, you cannot resume, Sherlock! I can't keep my office door shut during my open-door office hours! And that violin is going to disturb people even with the door shut!"

Sherlock glared and switched to playing a classical piece that John had never heard before. He was so caught off-guard by the skillful playing that he just stared with his mouth open until a knock sounded at the door.

"Sorry!" Molly's muffled voice came through the closed door. "It's just that we can still hear the shouting! And the violin!"

And it was so ridiculous that John just started giggling. Sherlock stopped playing in surprise and pouted ridiculously, which just made John laugh harder. Not long after, Sherlock started giggling, too, which set John off again. Molly opened the door and stared at them blankly as John literally fell on the floor, propped up against his desk chair with tears streaming down his face, and Sherlock lay curled up on the couch in the fetal position, chuckling madly for the next ten minutes. Every time one of them started to recover, the other one would start laughing again.

By the time they had finally calmed down, Molly was long gone, and several of the other professors on the floor had shut the doors to their offices.

"No more violin during my office hours, Sherlock."

Sherlock just grinned madly and nodded.

The rest of the afternoon passed mostly uneventfully, but every time John came into the faculty break room for the next two weeks, the other professors would mimic violin playing at him in an attempt to make him start giggling again. It worked for the first few days, but after that it got rather old.

.x.x.x.x.x.

There was something decidedly intriguing about John Watson. For someone so outwardly normal, John had an interesting history. An army veteran invalided home and forced to give up his dream of becoming a doctor? Someone of seemingly average intelligence with a PhD in numerical analysis, with a keen interest in biological computing? John's mind clearly worked on an entirely different level from Sherlock's own. He must have made up for a lack of brilliance with perseverance, focus, and likely a stubborn refusal to admit when he was out of his depth. The GPA listed on his CV was impressive - a 3.9 average in graduate school. His GPA in undergrad had been only a 3.4. So when he came back to school, he had likely sacrificed any sort of social life to focus exclusively on his studies.

Of most interest to Sherlock, though, was the way John treated him. He didn't pussy-foot around him like the professors who knew who his brother was. He didn't sneer like the students who thought of him as a know-it-all. He didn't tolerate him like Lestrade, or disapprove of him like Mycroft, or even smother him with affection like his violin teacher, Mrs. Hudson. John actually seemed to like Sherlock. At least, as far as Sherlock could tell - he had never really had a friend before, so it was difficult to determine with certainty.

He'd even tested out his theory during John's office hours. He had done homework unrelated to the class, and John had simply shrugged. He had explained his observations of John, and, to Sherlock's amazement, John had been pleased instead of furious. Sherlock had asked him personal questions, which John had answered without hesitation or embarrassment before asking Sherlock questions in kind. John seemed genuinely interested in Sherlock. And, as a final experiment, Sherlock had brought his violin to John's office, and although John had been annoyed at first, he hadn't thrown Sherlock out. Instead, he had laughed. They had both laughed.

There was also the limp. Sherlock had watched John in class and during office hours and concluded the following: John's limp was entirely psychosomatic, as he was able to stand and move comfortably when his mind was engaged, but John was convinced that his limp was real, judging from his grimace when Sherlock had brought it up. Clearly this was a challenge of the best sort, and so Sherlock decided on a Plan.

On Friday morning he arrived at campus an hour early and headed to the seventh floor of the office tower where the computer science offices were located. He set up his laptop on one of the small tables in the hallway within view of John's office door, and waited.

John finally came up the stairs at 8:45, and Sherlock waited for him to get out his office key before standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"John!"

John turned, startled, and Sherlock had to suppress a smile. "Good morning."

"Hello, Sherlock. What brings you up here?"

Sherlock recited the excuse he'd prepared. "I thought I might catch you before class. I wanted to ask you about today's lecture."

John frowned as he pushed the door open. "Really? You're already weeks ahead of the curriculum, you know that. What did you want to know about the lecture?"

Sherlock followed John into his office and sprawled out on the sofa. "When are you going to talk about the first midterm exam? I'm assuming I have nothing to worry about. Are we going to cover anything interesting, at least?"

John leaned his cane against his desk and started shuffling through the papers on his desk. "Well, I was going to go over nested conditional statements and functions, and talk about binary for a bit. Ooh, that one was unintentional." Seeing Sherlock's quirked eyebrow, he tried to explain the joke. "You know, because computers store data in bits? Which are binary, either 1 or 0?"

Sherlock responded lightly, "Oh, I understood the pun. I just didn't think it was funny." Wait, was he teasing his professor now? Sherlock tried to bite back his smile.

"I'll make a convert of you yet. Computer scientists are famous for their puns. Or maybe that's just engineers."

"Mathematicians."

"Them, too."

John had turned back to his desk to sort through his class notes, and Sherlock realised with horror that he was grinning like an idiot. Time for plan B. He leapt up off the sofa and practically ran out of the door, calling out something about being late to class as he ran, hoping that John would follow him, giving Sherlock time to regain control of his facial muscles.

John appeared less than a minute later, looking flustered, but Sherlock noted with satisfaction that he was missing his cane. "I'll summon the lift." He strode away while John was preoccupied with locking his office door.

John caught up to him and stood as they waited for the lift to arrive.

"Lift, not elevator? You're from England, right?"

Sherlock nodded and hummed an affirmation. "I lived there until I was fifteen. When Father died, Mummy decided to move back to the United States to be with her family. My brother was already attending university by then, so he stayed." They moved into the empty lift and John pressed the '2'.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. Why was John apologising? "Whatever for?"

"About your father. It must have been hard for you, losing him and moving away from everything you'd known, all of your friends."

"I didn't have friends. I suppose I missed London," he mused.

John's eyebrows knit together and the corners of his mouth turned down, but he said nothing.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow appraisingly. "What?"

"Nothing. I just - everyone has friends."

Sherlock could feel his expression turning bitter, despite his best intentions. "Not me."

"No one? You can't be serious."

Sherlock thought back to the summer before he left England. "Well, there was Victor. I suppose. He would probably have called me his friend." Although _friend_ wasn't exactly an accurate term. More like _boyfriend_. "I haven't spoken to him since I left."

John looked at Sherlock with something resembling pity, and it was unbearable. Sherlock turned and stared at the lift doors, waiting for them to open so he could escape. Why had he ever thought John would be different?

.x.x.x.x.x.

John wasn't sure what to say in response to Sherlock's confession that he hadn't had any friends. He recalled his past conversations with Sherlock and how surprised the boy had always been at John's compliments. Suddenly his reaction made a lot of sense.

The elevator doors opened and Sherlock strode out ahead of John. John had to jog to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. Damn his long legs.

"So tell me about England. I've never been."

Sherlock slowed and turned to look at John, hesitating a beat before asking quietly, "What do you want to know?"

"What do you miss most?"

John finally caught up to Sherlock and they started walking abreast towards the classroom.

"The excitement, I suppose. London was always full of movement, of intrigue. People everywhere. Loads of crime."

"Crime?" John blinked in confusion.

"It's the best insight into human psychology, don't you think?" Sherlock was practically beaming.

"Okay, then."

"I don't miss the weather, though. Here it's so dry; it never rains. In London it's rainy all the time."

They reached the doors to the classroom and John poked his head 'round the corner, since it was now passing period. Greg waved at him from the front. "Hello, John!"

"Hi, Greg. How's the week going for you so far?"

"Oh, you know how it is. I'm getting better at guessing which students will drop in the first month, though. Had three of them pegged this time." He finally noticed Sherlock leaning against the door frame. "Sherlock? What are you up to? Bothering John?"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm not bothering him, Lestrade. I'm in his class, I'll have you know."

Greg laughed. "Oh, he's a handful, John, you watch out for this one." He strode up and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder affectionately. "How was your summer?"

Sherlock smiled a genuine smile that John hadn't seen before. "Dull. Mycroft was even more irritating than usual."

"Well, you should listen to him. He does actually want what's best for you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mum."

Greg turned back to John. "We're still meeting later today to go over your blood flow modeling paper, right? You can tell me all about this one," he said, gesturing at Sherlock, who scowled back at him, "and how that class has been going."

John gave a bemused half-smile and nodded. "See you at three."

After he had left, John turned to Sherlock. "So how do you know Greg? Professor Lestrade," he corrected.

Sherlock shrugged. "I took an engineering projects class from him last year. A special program through my high school."

John smiled at Sherlock before turning to the front table and uncoiling his laptop's power cord. A few students had already started trickling in.

He managed to mostly forget about Sherlock during the class period, and after the end he was packing up his laptop when a pretty girl came up to the front to speak with him. He remembered her name was Jeanette, as she'd been to his office hours a few times for help with the programming assignments. She didn't seem to like Sherlock, but then, not many students did.

"So the first exam is next Wednesday, right?"

"Yep, the content covered is listed on the website, and I'll be doing a study session on Monday. If you have any questions, feel free to stop by during my office hours."

"Okay, thanks! And I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

"Sorry?" John's face scrunched up. "Feeling better?"

Jeanette stuttered nervously and gestured vaguely in the direction of his feet. "Erm. Your leg. You didn't bring your cane to class, so…"

With a start, John realized he didn't have his cane with him. For the first time in over an hour, his leg twinged, and he gripped onto the desk to keep from losing his balance. "Oh! Yes! I'd, um, almost forgotten about it. Yes, I'm feeling better, thanks, Jeanette."

The girl awkwardly excused herself, and John looked up to see Sherlock leaning against a desk, smiling smugly. That cheeky bastard. "This morning, when you dragged me out of my office... You did that on purpose - you were trying to distract me. Make me forget my cane."

"Well, it worked, didn't it? I can walk you back to your office if you'd like."

"You jerk." John didn't bother keeping the laughter out of his expression.

"I'll take that as a yes. I don't have my next class until eleven, after all."

They strode out of the room together, and John realized after a few seconds that he was staring, and quickly adjusted his gaze. "Do you do this to all your teachers?"

"Oh, no. Just the interesting ones. Care to get some tea?"

"Sure. I haven't had my Earl Grey yet today."

As they strode off towards the Celestial Seasonings coffee shop, John glanced over at Sherlock, who was smirking mischievously, his eyes focused on the path in front of him. John felt his own smile twist his features as he settled in beside Sherlock, eyes scanning the hall for familiar faces. His leg wasn't bothering him, and he flexed it carefully as he walked, testing the pressure.

John had a feeling that today was going to be a good day.


	3. Test Cases

_**Chapter 3: Test Cases**_

It was Mike Stamford who first suggested computer science. John had never considered it before; he was terrible with technology, and barely felt capable of using the smart phone Harry had given him.

"Seriously, Mike? I'm awful with computers. It's a miracle I manage my blog."

"You're just saying that. I bet you'd be great at it. You were good at math; you'd probably pick it up in no time."

Mike was one of the few people from undergrad that he still talked to. He had been a year ahead of John in school and was always happy to help John with homework or studying for tests. He'd gotten chubby in the year and a bit since John had last seen him, but he still had the same affable smile and easygoing demeanor. After graduating he'd gone on to get a PhD in biology, and he had just finished his second year as a graduate student when John got back from Afghanistan.

"Really though, John, just give it a shot. I know you want to make a difference, and there's a lot of fascinating research in this field, but the simulations and such require programming knowledge. I took a graduate class that was cross-listed with computer science, and it was fascinating. It was taught by Dr. Lestrade. Great guy; you should look him up. Tell you what: I can introduce you, set up a meeting. What's your email?" Mike smiled encouragingly at John and made him promise to call him for lunch sometime. "Let me know how your meeting with him goes."

.x.x.x.x.x.

Dr. Greg Lestrade smiled blandly at John over his mug of coffee. They'd agreed to meet outside the Baby Doe's coffee shop in the University Memorial Center on campus, and John rather nervously clutched his cup of Lemon Zinger herbal tea.

"So Mike says you know a lot about medicine?"

John nodded and forced a smile. "Yes. I was a medical officer in the army, and I did a pre-med program in undergrad at CU. I studied biology, with a minor in integrative physiology."

"And you've never programmed before?"

"No, sir, I haven't."

Dr. Lestrade laughed loudly. "You don't have to call me sir! Just call me Greg - all my students do. And don't worry about not knowing programming; I've known plenty of kids who started out with no experience, and still got their PhD."

John tried a sip of his tea, but it was still too hot and he ended up burning his tongue. He winced and then attempted a strangled smile so Dr. Lestrade - no, Greg - wouldn't think the grimace was directed at him.

"I happen to work with the intersection between biology and computer science, so I'm a good person for you to talk to. Many of my students were computer science in undergrad, and they're pretty hopeless at the biology bit." He rolled his eyes for emphasis. "So it would be nice to approach it from the other side of things - someone who knows why this research is important, what blood vessels look like, how heart systems work, how genes and cells mutate. Computer programming is just a tool you use to solve problems, and you know all about the problems. Which, in my opinion, is quite an advantage."

John fidgeted with his cup. "Well, I'm pretty passionate about medicine, and about helping people. But, how hard is this programming stuff? I mean, I'm sort of hopeless with computers."

Greg leaned back in his chair, gesticulating with his hands, still holding his coffee. "It's not too bad; it's just a different way of thinking. Do you speak any foreign languages?"

"I know a bit of French from high school, and I took two semesters of Italian in college. One of my buddies said it'd help me get a girlfriend." John smiled wryly.

"Computer programming is a bit like a foreign language - you have to learn vocabulary and grammar that computers understand, and use it to communicate. Some of the most basic things you can do, scripting for instance, involve just telling a computer to do commands in sequence. It can be much more complicated, of course, but most of what I focus on is about creating simulations in Mathematica and Matlab, or writing very efficient C code for solving mathematical equations, which is really just another form of simulation, if you think about it. The purpose of the math is to represent real world systems in a simpler way." By now, Greg was gesturing wildly enough to make some coffee slosh out of his cup. He hadn't seemed to notice yet, and John was momentarily distracted.

"Um, it's definitely different from anything I've done before. I'm not really a computer person. I always wanted to work with people, I mean. Not machines."

Greg shrugged. "That's why I teach, and why I collaborate with other research scientists. I may use a computer as a tool, but my research is all about people - helping people. And I get a lot of good feedback from my students. I think you would make a good teacher, John, if that's the sort of thing you're interested in. Those few really passionate students make it all worth it."

John smiled. He'd thought before about becoming a teacher, and he could certainly use a change of pace. For the first time in months, he felt a spark of hope. This could be his reason for living, his purpose. "So how do I sign up for Computer Science 101?"

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat and checked the time. It wouldn't do to finish his exam too quickly, as that would just draw attention. He'd learnt in high school that attention wasn't always a good thing, and had started trying to learn how to act normally. Unfortunately, although he could observe the emotions and activities of others, he never really understood them, and as soon as he opened his mouth in front of his classmates, the looks of incredulous scorn would start.

Sherlock had put a bit of effort this semester in building a persona of an aloof, albeit normal, college freshman. For once, he'd agreed with his brother's suggestion that he attempt to blend in, at least until he'd made some allies in the Engineering college.

He'd bought designer t-shirts and jeans that were nothing like the rest of his wardrobe, and carefully refrained from asking questions in class or talking to the other students. During his Wednesday recitation, he spoke politely to his TA, Molly, and ignored pretty much everyone else. It was a relief to be himself during John's office hours.

It had been a mistake to start the test straight away. It had only taken him five minutes to fill in the multiple choice and true/false sections, and then five minutes after that to write out the coding question. It was a laughably simple algorithm that involved two nested for loops and an if/else statement. Sherlock had considered coming up with several alternative approaches - perhaps using while loops - but decided it wasn't worth the effort.

So ten minutes into the exam, every other student was still furiously scribbling away, and Sherlock was bored out of his skull.

He tried to clear his mind, and managed to sit absolutely still for 43 seconds - a personal best. Then he started doodling in the margins. He tried to think of things that would make John smile. A caffeine molecule. A stick figure robot with a text bubble filled with ones and zeros. Sherlock wanted the robot to be saying something meaningful, so he translated the first few numbers in the Fibonacci sequence to binary and wrote them in. He drew a rough map of Afghanistan and marked off the capital city, but couldn't remember more than that. He'd always been rubbish at geography. He made a music stave and started marking the first few bars of Vivaldi's "Spring", though he doubted John would recognise it as the piece he'd started to play in his office a couple of weeks ago.

His drawing managed to take up another ten minutes, but Sherlock was getting frustrated. He hadn't wanted to be the first one to hand in his exam paper (he had some particularly unpleasant memories of being accused of cheating in secondary school), but he was running out of ways to entertain himself. He allowed himself a brief look at the other students - anything more than that might be misconstrued - and amused himself for a few more minutes making deductions. He glanced up at the front of the room to where John was sitting at the front desk, absorbed in his reading. It looked like he was halfway through some Agatha Christie novel. Sherlock watched as he flipped to the next page and wondered if he could deduce anything new.

John looked up from his book and saw Sherlock staring at him. He smiled, and Sherlock quickly looked back down at his exam, his heart pounding wildly. Well, that was certainly inconvenient. He chided himself for getting startled. Hopefully John wouldn't think anything of it, but Sherlock certainly couldn't risk looking at him again.

In the meantime, continuing to sit and wait for time to pass was becoming unbearable.

He checked his watch again, desperate to make his escape. 25 minutes in. Enough was enough, and even if he had to be the first one to turn in his test, he no longer cared.

He quickly paced up to the front and slid his test onto John's desk. He gave him a slight nod and sauntered casually out the door, noting John's knowing smile with some satisfaction. Finally, he was free! He pushed all thoughts of his teacher out of his head, determined to focus on more important matters. Time to head back to his room and check on that experiment with the toes...

.x.x.x.x.x.

John had put a lot of effort into not making the first exam too hard. He'd even forced his two TAs, Molly and Jim, to take the test and see how long it took them - 15 and 5 minutes, respectively. John had taken 10 minutes to complete the thing, and he figured that with a multiplier of 5, most of the students would be able to finish it in time. The coding question was a little tricky, but they'd done something similar in the lab already.

He brought a book to class and flipped through it half-heartedly as he proctored the exam. Most of the students were deeply involved. A few were trying to sneak glances at other people's papers. A few more looked bored and annoyed - probably the ones who hadn't studied. And Sherlock looked like he was enjoying himself, at first. And then he started to look more and more desperate. Now he was taking surreptitious glances at his classmates and scribbling on his test again.

John read a few more pages and then glanced up to find Sherlock staring at him. When he caught Sherlock looking, however, the boy flushed and looked back down at his exam, fidgeting nervously. It was almost enough to make John laugh out loud, but he managed to restrain himself to a grin. Sherlock almost ran down to the front and thrust his exam at him before nodding and strolling out the exit door. John started flipping through the exam and actually did let out a surprised laugh this time. A few students looked at him strangely and he smiled at them, embarrassed.

There were comments and doodles all over the paper. Apparently Sherlock had finished the exam with plenty of time to spare. There were comments on many of the multiple choice answers, especially the sillier wrong ones, some deductions about his fellow classmates (he was amused to learn of Sarah's pet gerbils, and vaguely horrified about the comments on Mark's preferred evening activities - should mention that to Sherlock later), a stick figure speaking binary, a squiggly blob with a dot in it (John wasn't sure what that one was supposed to be), some musical notes, a molecule (caffeine, if he remembered correctly), a correction to a typo on one of the questions, and, to his annoyance, the identity of the murderer in the book he was currently reading. John checked the answers and wasn't terribly surprised to find they were all correct.

He was interrupted from his perusal of Sherlock's exam by a young girl with a smug smile, who handed him her exam and skipped off. A few more students started filtering down, and John figured he'd get a head start on grading. He shuffled Sherlock's exam to the bottom of the stack and broke out his red pen.

.x.x.x.x.x.

John was working in his office one Tuesday when he heard a knock on his closed door. That was odd; Sherlock never knocked these days. When he went over to open the door, he saw Jeanette was standing there, looking puzzled.

"Sorry, are you not having office hours today?"

"No, I am. Sorry about the door. Normally Sherlock opens it when he comes in. I've gotten so used to it..."

"Sherlock's not here?" Jeanette asked with a frown. She'd never seemed that fond of Sherlock, but every time she'd come to John's office, Sherlock had been there.

The first time students would come to office hours John would usually smile apologetically, introduce Sherlock, and then attempt to ignore him until the other student had left. Sherlock usually ignored them in kind unless they had clearly not read the textbook or attempted the assignment before coming to talk to John. In those cases, Sherlock would usually darkly comment that their use of John's time may be better spent doing the actual work for the class. One boy had retorted that not everyone had time to lounge around on their teacher's couches, and Sherlock, in an apparent fit of pique, had responded by deducing that the student's mother was having an affair, causing him to burst into tears and flee the office.

"Sherlock, I know he probably deserved it, but you can't just go around telling people that their parents are cheating on each other."

Sherlock pouted petulantly. "I didn't go around. I've been here the whole time."

"Sherlock..." John started warningly.

"Fine. I will refrain in the future from pointing out unpleasant truths about students of inferior intelligence, even if they deserve it. Happy?"

John just sighed. "And you need to apologize to him when you see him in class."

"Why should I?"

"Because you hurt his feelings," John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes, so he quickly added, "And if you don't, it will be awkward for me, as his teacher."

"I'm not actually sorry. But all right," Sherlock finally relented.

_Good enough_, John had thought.

But Jeanette had earned Sherlock's grudging respect, thanks to her honest attempts at the assignment before turning to John for help. Sherlock had even helped her hunt down a nasty logical error in her clock program that had been eating up all her memory and causing her remote connection to the Linux machine to drop.

"That's odd. Isn't he usually here by now?" Jeanette asked.

"What time is it? 10:45 already?"

That was definitely strange. Should John be worried? On the other hand, it would be just like Sherlock to stop coming to office hours and act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

John hoped that this didn't become a regular occurrence. The thought of not seeing Sherlock made his stomach flip unexpectedly. He pushed away his discomfort and smiled at Jeanette.

"I'm sure he's just busy with something. What do you need?"

.x.x.x.x.x.

On Monday afternoon, Sherlock had been detained by Mycroft, who had insisted he go to the doctor for his regular check-up. His brother had insisted that Sherlock visit the doctor every three months if he wanted to keep using the nicotine patches.

Sherlock was furious that Mycroft had scheduled the appointment without his input (though if he'd had a choice, he'd not have gone at all). Not only that, but he'd scheduled it during John's office hours.

"Really, Sherlock, I didn't realise you would object so strenuously to the timing. You don't have any classes on Tuesdays between 9am and 3pm."

Mycroft was sitting calmly behind his desk, twirling that ridiculous brolly. Sherlock remained standing, pointedly ignoring his brother's gesture toward the stuffed chair seated in front of his desk.

"That's not the point. I go to office hours on Tuesdays."

"For your computer science class, correct? Surely you can afford to miss just one day? Dr. Lestrade assures me that you are performing well above expectations in that class."

Sherlock eyed his brother with distaste. "So now you've gotten Lestrade to spy on me?"

"And I'm sure your irritation has nothing whatsoever to do with the esteemed Dr. Watson."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, but I think you do."

Sherlock tensed up, his hands balling into fists. "Leave John out of it."

Mycroft's smile was reminiscent of a shark's.

"Could it be that you are protesting so strongly on account of your feelings for Dr. Watson?"

"I don't have feelings for him," Sherlock snapped. "And I'd thank you to keep your very large nose out of my private affairs, Mycroft. What I do in my free time is no concern of yours."

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. "It is my concern if a teacher in one of my departments is conducting an inappropriate relationship with his student."

"There's nothing inappropriate about it."

"Then you do not deny the presence of a relationship?"

"Piss off, Mycroft."

"I'm just thinking of what's best for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock had stormed out of Mycroft's office in a huff, and the receptionist in the Dean's Office had called out to him with amusement, "Fighting with your brother again?" before turning back to her Blackberry. Sherlock let the door slam shut behind him.

.x.x.x.x.x.

The appointment had taken even longer than Sherlock had anticipated. The indignity of being poked and prodded had been a minor inconvenience compared to the mind numbing boredom of waiting. Sherlock had arrived five minutes early for his ten o'clock appointment, at Mycroft's insistence, and then after filling out twelve pages of unnecessary paperwork, had been told to take a seat and wait to be seen. At seventeen minutes past ten (Sherlock had been keeping a close eye on the clock) he had been escorted to a back room, where his height (6'0"), weight (154 lbs), and blood pressure (118/75) were recorded. His blood was drawn for a series of tests which Sherlock could easily have performed himself, with the proper equipment. He'd have to mention that to his brother.

And then he had been forced to wait once more, after being told to change into a ridiculous gown with no back, and Sherlock would have been affronted by the outfit if he hadn't been so preoccupied with the time, as he could have been spending this time with John, but no, he was sitting on an examination table in a stupid backless apron thing, and-

He took a deep breath. Five minutes. He just had to get through the next five minutes. Then he would re-evaluate the possibilities for escaping out a window.

He was in the middle of considering the possible uses of the informational leaflets in his escape (possibly as a diversionary tactic, as they looked quite flammable) when the doctor finally came in, and the next twenty three minutes consisted of awkward groping and questions about sleeping habits and had he experienced any further withdrawal symptoms or relapses and was he ready to switch to a lower dose on the nicotine patches?

By the time Sherlock was redressed and free from the confines of his medical cell, it was 12 minutes to noon and there was no point in going to see John until after lunch, so Sherlock went back to his room and sullenly rotated his blood samples. He slapped a nicotine patch on under his silk shirt, and then paused before putting on another. No, he would not like to switch to a lower dosage, thank you very much.

When he finally got to John's office at ten to one, he hesitated before entering. Should he explain his absence? Would John even care? Did he even notice? Well, if John didn't mention it, Sherlock wouldn't say anything. That seemed to be what normal people did.

Sherlock pushed the door open and John looked up from his laptop. "Hey."

"Hello."

"I was wondering if you were going to show up."

"I was... detained."

John raised an eyebrow questioningly, but said nothing.

"I was at the doctor's."

John suddenly looked concerned. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes, fine." Sherlock waved his hand about dismissively. "It was just a physical. I'm not dying."

John smiled at this. "Right. Glad to hear it."

As Sherlock settled onto the threadbare pink sofa, he reflected on how delightfully quiet John's office was. There were no analogue clocks to tick menacingly at him. Just the occasional patter of footsteps in the hall outside, and John's quiet breathing. Sherlock smiled as he soaked in the exquisite stillness.

Then he remembered his most recent calculus lab assignment, going over triple integrals and the applications to magnetic fields and fluid flow, and wondered if he could write integration software to make an approximate model of the system, and whether John would help him with implementing the algorithm...

.x.x.x.x.x.

The following Thursday, Sherlock arrived at office hours fifteen minutes later than normal, his eyebrows looking slightly singed, but John knew better than to ask what had happened.

"So what do people talk about - normal people - when they know each other well? When there's nothing new to learn about the other person?"

Sherlock was peering at John from his usual spot on the sofa. He looked genuinely curious.

John frowned in response.

"There's always something new. People change, Sherlock. People discover things about themselves every day. How would anyone else know every little thing there is to know about you, if you don't even know it yourself?"

"You're just avoiding the question."

"Am not," John countered. He was starting to sound like Sherlock.

Sherlock raised a pointed eyebrow, a smirk on his lips.

"Fine. They talk about their day, what they want to do when they get home from work. What they want to eat for dinner. Girlfriends, boyfriends, current events, office gossip, new movies coming out, trips they have planned."

"Dull."

John looked over at Sherlock thoughtfully.

"What would you talk about, then?"

"I suppose I'd like to talk about the things we talk about."

"Oh?"

"You understand people in a way I don't. You're so boring, so ordinary. I suppose that helps you to understand in a way I can't."

John couldn't help smiling at this. Sherlock somehow managed to be insulting even when trying to deliver a compliment.

"And you know about so many subjects. Even if I were to know everything about you, I could still learn from you."

"Thanks, I think."

Sherlock was quiet.

"It is my goal to teach, after all," John added. "I'm glad you can learn from me. Considering how I don't manage to teach you anything in class," he teased.

"Why do you say that?"

"Sherlock, you're already doing advanced programming. You know the material; you don't need to attend."

"I learn something new every time I go."

John laughed at this. "Deducing things about your classmates?"

"No, you." The tips of Sherlock's ears were slightly pink.

"Deducing things about me?" John mock-groaned. "That's even worse. What horrible secrets have you uncovered, then?"

Sherlock just turned away from John, looking slightly disgruntled.

"Nothing important."

"Might be important to me."

"Hmph." Sherlock turned back to his French homework, resolutely avoiding John's gaze.

John shrugged and, still smiling, turned back to his laptop.

.x.x.x.x.x.

On Wednesday, Greg caught John before class and asked if he wanted to meet him in the faculty lounge between classes, hoping to cancel their Friday meeting so he could start his weekend plans early - something about heading up to the mountains with Jenny, though Greg didn't seem too excited about it. John had cheerfully agreed, since he liked to see Greg spending time with his wife, and it meant he could spend an extra hour out in the sun on Friday.

Unfortunately, Greg didn't mention what time he wanted to meet, so John decided to work on his research paper in the lounge instead of his office so he wouldn't miss him.

Other professors drifted in and out of the lounge, mostly to grab coffee, or as it got closer to noon, to heat up leftovers. Most of them acknowledged John with a smile or a wave before shuffling back to their offices, but a few sat down to chat for a couple minutes while their lunch heated up, and John appreciated the break from writing.

"How have your classes been going so far, Sally?"

Professor Sally Donovan smiled grimly. "Oh, you know how these guys get after they've gotten through algorithms. Think they know everything. Like a woman isn't going to teach them anything new. I've got some real smart asses in my AI class. The grad students are fine, but some of the undergrads really get on my nerves." She smirked at John. "Speaking of smart asses, how is your freaky freshman?"

"Don't call him that!" John admonished. "It's bad enough when students do it, you don't need to mock him, too."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, he creeps me out. I need students speculating on my sex life like I need a bullet in the brain."

Sally grimaced at the memory of her most recent encounter with Sherlock. Dropping by John's office to ask him about a grant application she was involved in, Sally had made a biting comment on Sherlock having somewhere better to be than pestering John. Sherlock had taken one look at her and surmised that she was just back from a visit to Professor Anderson's office, and asked if the view from the floor was nice, since she'd clearly been kneeling. Sally had turned bright red and fled the office. When John had scolded Sherlock for the inappropriate comment, Sherlock had frowned and simply said, "Well, she started it."

John sighed. "He's - not good with people, is all. I don't think he has many friends."

"Well, I'm not surprised! The way he acts."

Molly Hooper, who had been heating up a frozen TV dinner, turned around at Sally's latest comment. "Ooh, office gossip? Who are you two talking about? Anyone I know?"

John frowned. Molly taught Sherlock's lab section, and Sherlock had implied that he'd caught Molly staring a couple times. He seemed to think she had a bit of a crush on him. John had asked if Sherlock was interested, and he'd responded with a non-committal "Not my type."

John was just responding with a tense "No one you know," as Sally blurted, "Yeah, that freak that's always hanging out in John's office."

John glared at her in what he hoped was a menacing manner, but Sally blithely ignored him.

"Who, Sherlock? He's not a freak! He's just a bit... odd. He's in my lab section, you know," Molly added, looking pleased as punch.

"Oh? And what derisive remarks has he made about you?"

Molly's face crinkled up in consternation. "I don't know what you mean. He's perfectly pleasant to me. Well, I suppose that one time he did tell me that my mouth was too small." She touched her lips absently. "Maybe I should get a different color lipstick."

Sally threw up her hands in exasperation. "You're both crazy! I guess I'm glad he hasn't pissed off the entire department. I think I'll let you get back to your Sherlock fan club."

Greg strode in to the lounge, and overhearing Sally's comment, broke into a grin. "I get to be treasurer!"

Molly smiled. "I guess that makes John president, then, since he spends the most time with him."

"Oh, no. I'm perfectly happy to concede that position to you, Molly."

At this, Molly blushed. "I don't think Jim would like that."

"Hey! Are you two dating? Congrats!" Molly beamed as Greg muttered that it was about damn time.

Greg clapped John on the shoulder. "As pressing as this is, perhaps we should stop gossiping, and go over your abstract for that blood flow article instead? I've finished looking it over."

"Right. Let me grab my laptop." John got up and followed Greg back to his office, waving at Sally and Molly as he exited the lounge. "Remember, next fan club meeting on Tuesday!"

.x.x.x.x.x.

The next Tuesday morning had been too quiet. No one had visited John's office hours yet, and he was starting to get bored. Sherlock had been unnaturally silent, too. This grant proposal was becoming a pain in the ass, and John was hoping for a distraction.

"So what do you do when you're not here?"

John turned to look at Sherlock. He was looking over at John from the couch. He had a calculus textbook spread over his lap and was nibbling on the end of a mechanical pencil.

"You mean, what do I do for fun?"

"Well, that assumes you have fun when you're not here." Sherlock pursed his lips. "Which I somehow doubt."

John glared at Sherlock. "I have plenty of fun. I happen to enjoy cleaning my apartment."

Sherlock laughed, not unkindly. "You could come over to my dorm room. Mycroft is always harping on at me to clean."

"No, thanks. I'm sure your dorm is a disaster area." John considered Sherlock's question. "I guess I don't do all that much. I ride my bike sometimes. I cook. Sometimes I'm too tired after a day on campus and I just order Chinese or something. I usually drink a beer after work. I watch old sci-fi show reruns. I try to avoid my sister and usually fail. I sometimes update my blog but I don't have all that much to talk about."

Sherlock smiled. "Do you ever go out with friends?"

"Well, Greg's invited me to go to dinner with him and his wife a few times, but I rarely take him up on it. I guess I've gone out to coffee with Mike - he was a friend from undergrad. He's the one who got me into computer science."

Sherlock tilted his head curiously. "No girlfriend?"

"Does it sound like I have a girlfriend? I'd like to think my time would be better spent if I did. Or at least I'd eat less takeout."

Sherlock smiled but didn't say anything else, and now John was curious.

"So what about you? Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Not really my area."

John considered the odd phrasing. "Boyfriend then? Which is fine, by the way."

Sherlock glanced up at him sharply. "I know it's fine."

"Right. So, you have a boyfriend, then?"

"No."

"So you're single. Like me."

Sherlock gave John a speculative look and John quickly turned his gaze back to the papers on his desk.

Suddenly John felt very foolish. It was none of his business if one of his students was dating or not. But when Sherlock had said he was single, John's heart had started beating just a tiny bit faster.

"Look, John, while I'm flattered, I don't really do relationships-"

"What? No, I - no! I wasn't. I wasn't saying - it's fine."

"Right. Of course."

Sherlock launched into a biting commentary on his chemistry classmates and started telling John about the state of his most recent experiment. The rest of the afternoon passed more or less uneventfully, and if John was a bit subdued when Sherlock said goodbye, they both pretended not to notice.


	4. Boundary Value Problem

_**Chapter 4: Boundary Value Problem**_

On Sunday evening, John was munching on some fried rice and watching reruns of Star Trek when his phone rang. He didn't get many calls these days, so chances were good it was from Harry. He let it ring through. Certainly Star Trek was better than talking to his sister.

After about a minute of quiet, the phone started up again. This time he muted the phone and let it ring through again.

The third time, he picked up.

"What is it, Harry?"

"John! How nice to finally get a chance to talk to you. Your answering machine isn't quite as good at conversations."

John emitted the sigh of the long-suffering. "What do you want this time?"

"Can't I call my little brother just to chat?"

"No."

"Alright, fine. I wanted to have lunch with you and gossip. Aren't you teaching a class, now that you've graduated? Are there any cute girls?"

"Aren't you too old for this?"

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you don't get any cute ones."

"There really aren't that many girls in engineering, Harry."

"Any cute boys, then?" she teased.

John pinched his nose as the image of a certain student leapt to mind. To be fair, he was rather striking, with his carefully tailored suits, sharp cheekbones, and unruly black locks. Like hell he was going to admit as much to his sister. "Harry, can we just drop it?"

"Oh, don't get your panties in a twist. I'm just teasing. Not like I want to hear about boys, anyway. Unless, of course, there's something to tell!"

John sighed and struggled to control his temper. "No, Harry. Just stop. Look, if you really want to have lunch, I'm free this Friday, but right now I'm tired and I have school early tomorrow. So, can we just save it for then?"

"Great! Friday! I'll meet you at noon, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll see you on Friday. Good night, Harry." John hastily clicked the end call button before Harry had a chance to respond. Even though it was only a little after seven, John felt a wave of exhaustion roll through him, as often happened when confronted with his sister's well-intentioned attempts to draw him out of his shell. No point in finishing up the episode now. He put the leftover rice in the fridge and shuffled off to bed.

.x.x.x.x.x.

"Pull back! Pull back!"

The sun was beating down mercilessly on the five soldiers huddled in the remains of the small village. Dust was tickling John's sinuses and he was dimly aware of rifle fire coming from the east. The Humvee was twelve yards away, beyond a small copse of trees, and otherwise unprotected. They'd have to spend time in the open to get back to it.

John was calculating the best route (no time, he needed more time, they couldn't break through without risking losses) and trying to decide how many men needed to provide cover fire (how many he could afford to lose) when Johnson spoke up.

"It's still bleeding, sir. I can't..."

Of course it was bleeding. It never stopped bleeding. "I'll take a look."

He knelt in front of Winters and checked the tightness of the strip of cloth knotted around his thigh. It wasn't tight enough, no matter how taut he pulled it. John set to work removing his own belt one-handed, the other pressing down on Winters' leg, in an attempt to provide some extra pressure. Still not enough.

(If only Winters hadn't gotten shot. They would have been fine, Winters would have covered them, or they could have hid and waited out the enemy until reinforcements arrived, but they had no time, Winters was bleeding out, and he would die, and John couldn't stop it.)

"We'll need at least two men to operate the vehicle. I can provide cover fire once I've adjusted Winters' tourniquet."

The three soldiers still standing signaled their assent. Johnson was still gawking at the slowly spreading puddle of crimson under Sam Winters. Growing, and growing, glistening eerily in the Afghan sun.

"Private. Pay attention. This is not the time to panic." It didn't matter how he said it; gentle or firm, Johnson always panicked.

"Three of us need to make the run in case one doesn't make it." One wouldn't. "I'll take the lead. Johnson, you stay here with Winters and keep applying pressure to the wound. Mills, Steinberg, take the right and left flank." He gestured to the copse of trees; not much cover, but it would provide a brief respite.

Not that it mattered. They were over twenty miles from base, and John could tell when a bullet had grazed the femoral artery. Even with the makeshift tourniquet, Winters was going to bleed out before they could do a damn thing.

Sam was only nineteen. What would his mother say? John would have to be the one to tell her.

John motioned for Mills and Steinberg to follow, and then his feet were flying underneath him. He knew what was coming next. No matter how fast John ran, he couldn't stop it.

They were almost to the trees when John found himself lying on the ground, wind knocked out of him. His vision blacked out for a moment as the worst pain he'd ever felt ripped through his shoulder, and in that instant, he knew he was going to die.

_Please, God, let me live._

John woke up.

.x.x.x.x.x.

You'd think, after five years, the nightmares would be less vivid.

You'd think John would have someone he could call when he woke up at two in the morning, screaming bloody murder.

He thumbed absently through his phone contacts.

Watson, Harry, obviously, was out. Though she was the most likely to be awake at this time, she was also the most likely person to be drunk off her ass.

Lestrade, Greg was likely curled up in bed with his wife. John felt a pang of jealousy but quickly tamped it down.

Stamford, Mike was a possibility. He was remarkably understanding and had suffered through more than a few late night calls. But he had a little one now. He needed the sleep.

Morstan, Mary would kill him if he called this late. Tom, on the other hand, was usually surprisingly okay with John calling up his girlfriend in the middle of the night. Apparently John posed no threat. The thought irritated him, just a bit. After all, John and Mary had been engaged. You'd think that would bother Tom at least a little.

Murray, Bill. John wasn't quite sure why he'd kept Bill in his contacts. The last time they'd spoken had been over four years ago. John absently thumbed through his texting history with Bill. In the beginning, plenty of bar hopping invites; lewd jokes about picking up girls; congrats when Bill moved in with his girlfriend. And then that awful text, that John had wished time and again he'd never sent.

**_Mary's left me._**

_**I'm so sorry, John. Buy you a pint?**_

That was the last text he ever got from Bill. The following messages were all from John.

**_Can we talk about what happened last night?  
Listen, I understand why you're pissed off. I just wanted to apologize.  
Bill, please just call me.  
I'm sorry.  
We were both really drunk. I didn't know what I was thinking.  
Text? Email? Something?_**

And finally, three weeks later, John's last text.

**_I'm sorry. I'll always be sorry. Give my love to Ann and I wish you all the best._**

This was stupid. He never should have reread those texts. For some reason losing Bill had hurt worse than losing Mary, although really, why should that surprise him? John may have been drunk, but he still had vivid memories of that night.

John had cried, for the first time since he'd gotten back from Afghanistan, and Bill had patted his back awkwardly, murmured something vaguely comforting, and bought yet another round of shots.

Four hours later, they were both giggling and stumbling out of the bar, and John suggested they crash at his place, since it was within walking distance.

He opened up his apartment door and ushered Bill inside, and the next part got a little fuzzy, but John remembered pushing Bill back against the counter, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, and frowning at the taste of rum and tequila.

But it was better than thinking about Mary. It was rough and cathartic and at one point Bill bit hard enough to draw blood. John fingered his left clavicle absently, searching for the bite. He'd picked at it as it healed, even risking infection, with the bizarre hope that it would form a permanent scar.

They'd ended up on the couch (bed was too far, couch was far more convenient) and they were too drunk to manage much more than fumbling, but John finally got Bill's briefs off, and his hand found what it was looking for. Bill was squeezing John's ass and mumbling something incomprehensible and encouraging, and it only took a few messy strokes before Bill was shouting into John's mouth.

They fell asleep on the sofa, too tired to relocate to the bed.

In the morning, Bill was gone. John never saw him again.

John hauled himself out of bed. It may have only been quarter past two, but he was wide awake. He stumbled to the kitchen to fill the kettle. He took note of the state of the kitchen before retreating to the living room: burner heating, kettle full and sitting on the stove, and his favorite mug on the counter, bag of Sleepytime herbal tea resting inside.

He padded out to the living room, grabbed a dogeared copy of _The Murder at the Vicarage_ from the bookshelf, and settled on the sofa to wait for the kettle to boil.

.x.x.x.x.x.

"God, this assignment is tedious. Why are all these freshman classes so mind-numbingly boring? Even yours - no offense."

John just grunted in response. Sherlock had been ranting for the past week and a half about how "frighteningly dull" all his classes were and how "insipid" his fellow freshmen acted. It was starting to wear on John's considerable reserves of patience.

As much as John enjoyed spending his office hours with Sherlock, he was the first to admit that the boy was a handful. He was constantly interrupting John while he worked with questions, opinions, complaints and random tidbits.

"John! What do you know about quantum computing?"

"Not much, to be honest. If you could create a reliable quantum computer, you could use it to quickly factor large numbers, which would render current encryption methods useless."

"Yes, but how do you create one?"

"I can't help you there. You should ask Professor Anderson."

Sherlock sighed unhappily and returned his attention to his laptop.

John tried to think of something that would keep Sherlock engaged without getting him into trouble. Apparently Mycroft had put the kibosh on Sherlock's more dangerous chemistry experiments by informing the RA of his Bunsen burner and store of hydrochloric acid. Sherlock hadn't stopped pouting since they'd been confiscated, but John was secretly relieved, as he could very easily picture Sherlock setting his dorm on fire.

What would keep Sherlock busy? Nothing so simple as an extra credit project or programming assignment. He always seemed interested in the more advanced topics John had brought up in office hours, and he seemed to enjoy all the journal articles John had given him to read. And most of all, Sherlock seemed to enjoy showing off. After all, what was the point of being brilliant if you couldn't share it? Suddenly, John's eyes lit on the poster outside his office, visible through the open door. _Yes. That might just work._And if he could get Sherlock interested, maybe he'd finally stop whining.

"Have you ever thought of writing a research paper? To publish in a journal? Or - present at a conference?"

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked at John curiously, a small frown on his face.

John gestured to the poster outside his office. "There's going to be a biological computing conference in Dallas next May. They're accepting abstract submissions through early April. If you were interested in presenting at the conference, I could help you to come up with a topic, and to write up the abstract."

Sherlock's eyed John curiously. "And I would present it at the conference?"

"Greg and I were planning on driving down together. If your abstract gets accepted, you can come with us."

Sherlock appeared to be considering the idea, but he was smirking in that satisfied way he had when John said something that Sherlock deemed intelligent.

"Hmm, yes. That sounds intriguing."

"Yeah?" John smiled at Sherlock. "You think that might be something you'd want to do?"

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. "Definitely. When do we start? Should we set up a meeting?"

John laughed. "You already see me every day. Although I suppose we should meet outside of my office hours; it's bad enough that you're here all the time. What day works best for you? I have a weekly meeting Friday at 3pm with Professor Lestrade, but not too much else."

"Could we play it by ear, as it were? My schedule isn't always predictable. I could..." He hesitated, briefly. "Could I text you when I have free time and you can let me know if that will work for you? I could just email you, but I don't check my school email as regularly."

John was almost positive that this was a bad idea. Giving his personal phone number to a student crossed a line that John wasn't entirely comfortable with. But Sherlock's logic was sound; it would be much easier to schedule meetings if they could text each other.

"Alright. What's your number? I'll send you a test text."

Sherlock grinned widely and they exchanged numbers. John's text to Sherlock was "Hello World," and Sherlock smiled at the computer programming reference. He thought carefully before sending the response, "Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you."

John smiled.

.x.x.x.x.x.

On Friday, John biked down from campus to the 29th street mall to meet up with Harry. He'd been biking more often since Sherlock had tricked him out of using his cane, and he enjoyed feeling the wind in his hair as he raced downhill. The late October weather was still quite warm and the sun was shining, so John made the most of the ride.

As usual, Harry was late, so John sat outside the cafe people watching and enjoying the sunshine. He'd sent a text to his sister letting her know he was waiting for her before settling down at a wire table on the patio outside, near a few cheerfully obnoxious college students.

After about fifteen minutes, as he wished for the fourth time that he'd brought some assignments to grade, Harry finally walked up to his table, still dressed in her work uniform of khakis and red polo shirt.

"Hey, little brother! Long time no see! How are things?"

John shrugged. Somehow, being around his sister always made him tense.

"Oh, what's got you down? At least I have the excuse of hating my job."

John attempted a smile. "Shall we order lunch, then?"

They ate lunch outside, Harry doing most of the talking. John answered most of her questions with as little detail as possible.

"So on the phone I asked you if there were any cute girls, and you were uncharacteristically sneaky." Harry studied John's face carefully and was apparently pleased with what she saw, as she let out a cackle and exclaimed, "I was right! There is someone! You have a terrible poker face, John."

John could tell he was blushing and glared at his sister.

"Good thing I don't play poker."

He was not going to talk about Sherlock. He did not find Sherlock attractive. Certainly not. And the fact that he spent more time with Sherlock than any of his friends, family, or colleagues didn't mean anything. _Right._Keep telling himself that, and he might start to believe it.

"You don't have to tell me about her if you don't want. I just don't like the idea of my little brother being lonely."

"I'm fine, Harry! Would you stop trying to play matchmaker? Do you even remember that awful blind date you set me up on? Because I certainly do."

"Quit scowling. Your face will stick that way, and then all your students will be afraid of you."

John ignored her and took another bite of his panini. Maybe if he thought about it hard enough, he could psychically convince his sister to leave him alone long enough to eat his damn sandwich.

Harry interrupted his reverie by poking him in the side and asking, "So if you're not going to tell me about the pretty students, will you at least tell me about the interesting ones?"

Well, Sherlock would certainly qualify there.

"I suppose there is one student in particular - he's brilliant. I think he's a month ahead of the curriculum. He did the first exam in less than thirty minutes, and got every question right. And he always comes to my office hours."

"What do you mean, always?"

"He comes to all of my office hours. For the entire time. He just camps out on the sofa and asks questions. He doesn't even work on computer science stuff the entire time. Half the time he just does homework for his other classes. He's interested in chemistry and biology, so sometimes he asks about those. He even brought his violin once." John chuckled.

Harry had a strange expression on her face. "So is he hiding from his roommates, then?"

John frowned. "No, I'm pretty sure he lives by himself. He's over in the Will Vill dorms."

Harry looked alarmed. "Seriously? He hangs out with you for hours? Any time you have office hours?"

John shrugged. "Well, I guess on the first day he only dropped by for a couple minutes…"

She whistled a cat call. "Someone has an admirer." Now she was grinning at John madly, and he was sure his face was bright red.

"It's not like that!"

"Next thing you know, he'll be asking you for your phone number." She started smirking, and suddenly John felt very uncomfortable.

"Well, I was going to help him with writing a research paper to present at a conference, and it seemed like the easiest way to set up meetings..."

Harry's eyes widened. "John! Are you serious?!"

"What's the big deal? So he's enthusiastic. I don't see-"

"Well, that doesn't make it okay to give him your number!"

John bit his lip. "I know, but..."

"Well, if you knew, then why did you do it?"

Why had he given Sherlock his number? It had seemed so obvious at the time...

"Whatever, it's just weird that you're giving out your number to a student who obviously has a crush on you."

"Stop that! Seriously! He's not interested, okay?"

"And how do you know this, exactly? Did you ask him on a date and he said no?" She smiled wickedly. "Have you asked him about his girlfriend?" She knew John far too well, and his guilty start was more than enough proof for her to jump to conclusions. "You did, didn't you!"

"He asked first. I was curious. I know I shouldn't have said anything, it's just-" He really shouldn't finish that sentence. "Never mind."

"He asked first? Really? John, why are you so sure that he's not interested? None of your arguments so far have been terribly convincing."

John struggled to figure out why this was bothering him so much. Though he was loathe to admit it, he definitely felt something for Sherlock that went beyond the interest of a teacher for his student. If the attraction were mutual, it would be so much more dangerous.

But Sherlock had said that he didn't do relationships. Why would he say that if he were interested?

"Hey, don't freak out. Lots of students get crushes on their teachers. I remember having the hots for Ms. Palmer back in high school. I'm sure you have girls fawning all over you, but you just haven't noticed yet."

"That's very comforting, Harry, thanks," John responded dryly.

"I'm just saying that it's normal. Besides, you're an attractive guy, you should have expected it."

John just sighed. He glanced down at his watch - it was still twenty minutes 'til he'd have to leave for his meeting with Greg, but spending any more time with his sister sounded excruciating. "Look, I have to get back. I'll, uh, see you around, I guess."

"Right. Sorry. Just - be careful?" Harry was frowning at him.

"Yeah." He gave her an awkward, one-armed hug, and took his tray back inside. He didn't want to face his sister again, so he used the other exit door even though it was slightly farther from his bike. As he cycled back to campus, he mused on how it seemed like every time he talked to his sister these days, he ended up in a bad mood.

.x.x.x.x.x.

On Monday afternoon, while sitting in the park enjoying a brief respite from grading, John got his first text from Sherlock.

**_I have free time to discuss the journal articles you sent me. If convenient, meet me in the engineering lobby. -SH_**

John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock almost sounded like he was being considerate. A second text came in less than a minute later.

**_If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH_**

Well, that sounded more like Sherlock. John sighed heavily and sent a reply.

**_Will be there in 30 minutes._**

**_Where are you? At home? -SH_**

**_No, I'm at Scott Carpenter Park._**

**_If you rode your bike there, which is likely, it should only be a ten minute ride back to campus. Even if you were walking, it shouldn't take you more than twenty minutes. -SH_**

**_Maybe I wanted to finish my lunch._**

**_You finish your lunch by 1:00 most days. It's almost two. It's highly unlikely you're still eating. -SH_**

**_Also, you should sign your texts. It makes it easier to ascertain at a glance who sent them. -SH_**

John decided to ignore these last texts and started to bike back to campus. It was true that the ride wouldn't take more than ten minutes, but John had been enjoying the sunshine. When he checked his phone he saw half a dozen more messages from Sherlock.

**_I hope you are not responding because you are busy returning to campus. -SH  
Should I have not mentioned the signing of the texts? Have I committed some sort of social faux pas? -SH  
I don't really care if you sign your texts. -SH  
No one else texts me, really. -SH  
Though I suppose you don't text me either, yet. -SH  
I suppose Mycroft texts me, but he doesn't count. -SH  
And he only texts me when he's in the library. -SH  
Why aren't you here yet? -SH  
I'm bored. -SH_**

John was torn between amusement and aggravation at the demanding student. Apparently his attention span was such that he couldn't be bothered to wait even the ten minutes it took John to bike to campus. He put his bike away and ran up the stairs to the lobby. Sherlock was sitting in one of the booths, looking aggrieved.

"Still bored?" John called out as he slid into the booth.

Sherlock just grimaced and pushed a paper coffee cup towards him. "I took the liberty of ordering you an Earl Grey cambric with a shot of vanilla syrup."

John blinked at the tea in surprise. "Oh. Thanks." He gingerly took a sip. It was a bit sweeter than he normally drank it, but the addition of the foamy steamed milk was wonderful.

"You usually put whole milk and sweetener into your tea anyway. The cambric is just tea with steamed milk. And I think the vanilla goes well with Earl Grey."

Sherlock was lounging against the booth, limbs loose, gaze fixed deliberately on his hands, steepled in front of him. His expression was serious but John could detect a hint of amusement lifting the corners of his mouth. It looked like he was feigning nonchalance, and he might have been convincing in front of anyone else. But John had learned to read Sherlock, if only a little bit, and his shoulders were unnaturally tense, and he was pointedly avoiding eye contact.

Why would Sherlock be nervous? He'd just done something nice for John. If anything, John was flattered. He couldn't remember the last time someone had ordered him coffee or tea, much less picked something that John liked better than what he would have bought for himself.

John smiled. "Well, thank you. For the tea. It's tasty."

Sherlock just nodded, but his eyes flicked back to John's, and the curve of his shoulders softened. "I've read the journal articles you sent me, and taken a look at the conference website. So when do I start writing?"

"Writing is actually one of the last steps. You have to choose a topic; determine the existing research that's been done and where you could fill in the gaps; figure out if you're going to write code or do more theoretical research with proofs or algorithms; see if your results are even interesting; and then you can start writing it up. There are other ways to approach it, of course, but that's how I wrote my thesis."

Sherlock pouted slightly, his lips pursed, and John bit back a smile.

"Fine. So I need a topic then."

"The best way to find a topic is to read articles in different fields and see what appeals to you. The three I sent you last week are a good start; did any of those interest you?"

"I thought the paper on designing molecular circuits with DNA was intriguing."

John nodded in approval. "I thought you might like that one. In some ways, it's like quantum computing; finding alternate ways to make computers. Not really my area of expertise, though. Greg knows a bit more about it."

"Yes, your thesis was much more maths-oriented and theoretical. I did like the graphs though."

John blinked. How did he know about the graphs? Unless... "You read my thesis?"

Sherlock smirked, and John couldn't help but think how much the expression suited him. "Of course I did. I dropped by the engineering library the second week of class to see if they had it. Shame that they only have digital copies these days. I would have liked to have seen a printed version."

No one had asked to see his thesis before. Mike had helped proofread John's thesis before his final submission, but he had mostly been looking at the spelling and grammar, since anything but basic programming tended to go over his head. Harry had expressed initial interest before zoning out after seeing all the mathematical notation, and proceeded to skip straight to the graphs. "Look, every good book has pictures, this proves it!" she'd cried cheerfully.

"If you'd still like to see the printed version, I had a copy made for myself. I keep it at my apartment. I could bring it in if you'd like to look at it."

The fact that Sherlock had actually read John's thesis, of his own volition, was quite an ego boost for John. And Sherlock's smile when John offered to let him see the printed version made John's chest flutter pleasantly.

"No dog-earing the pages, now."

"What?" Sherlock gazed at John innocently, taking a small sip of espresso. "Next you'll be telling me not to use a highlighter."

"Ha! I suppose you're hoping to use some scissors to cut out the passages you find most interesting?" John was grinning now, and Sherlock was mirroring his expression.

Sherlock set down his coffee cup and leaned forward, resting on his elbows, hands stretching out towards John across the table. His eyes were bright with amusement, and the edges of his mouth curved upward. "How else can I make a collage? I'll be putting it up in my room next to the periodic table."

"Right." John's grin faded and he glanced down at his hands, clutching his now empty tea cup. "Well, then," he said after a pause, "I'll look up some more articles for you about biological programming and computers made from cells and DNA, and you can see whether there's anything you'd like to look into specifically. It might be hard to actually do programming, since we don't really have access to the biological materials. Our best bet will be to simulate the actual programming, which would give you some interesting things to code, and be good material for the conference. And you can look up some articles as well. I'd try Norlin library and see if they have anything." He glanced back up at Sherlock. "Sound like a plan?"

"Yes, that should be fine. I'll let you know if I find anything."

John slid out of the booth, grabbed Sherlock's empty cup as well as his own, and tossed them in the recycle bin. He strode over to the elevator and tried to ignore the feeling of Sherlock's eyes on his back.

The sooner he could get back to his office and push Sherlock from his mind, the better.


	5. Variable Declarations

_**Chapter 5: Variable Declarations**_

Sherlock lingered outside John's office door on Thursday afternoon. His fingers tapped nervously on the strap of his shoulder bag as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. The hallway was deserted, as usual, so Sherlock was unconcerned about being caught lurking. He glanced once more at the doorknob, debating whether he should go back inside.

John had seemed almost surprised on Tuesday, when Sherlock had come to his office hours, and Sherlock wasn't sure why. It had been aggravating to know that something was wrong but not be able to deduce the reason.

John had brought his thesis with him on Tuesday and watched with a bemused expression as Sherlock slipped it into his shoulder bag. Sherlock had stayed up until three in the morning on Wednesday flipping through it in the privacy of his room. He didn't need that much sleep, anyway.

Today during office hours, something had felt off. Strained, perhaps. John had been stressed out about something, the lines of tension in his back visible even through his shirt. He tended to wear more casual clothing during office hours than in class, which meant lots of baggy jumpers as the weather grew colder. John had taken off today's hideous maroon jumper, to Sherlock's delight, and Sherlock had found his eyes wandering when he thought John wasn't looking. John looked rather nice in that shirt. He'd probably look nicer out of it - but Sherlock mustn't think that way. John seemed uncomfortable enough around him.

John didn't seem to realise that Sherlock found him attractive. It wasn't as though Sherlock had been subtle about his sexuality. He hadn't said anything outright, of course, but he'd dropped hints, and he thought "not my area" was obvious enough. But then John had seemed almost _too_interested, and Sherlock had panicked and blurted out that line about not doing relationships. At the time it had seemed eminently rational, but now he was starting to wonder if he should have just kept his mouth shut.

He really did want to talk to John about the paper. It wasn't just an excuse to spend more time with him. He had found three articles at Norlin library and was excited about the prospect of discussing them with John.

So at 3pm, when he normally would have gone straight to his dorm room to check on his experiments, he left John's office, closed the door, and just stood there, lost in thought.

This was ridiculous. He was wasting time. He should just go back to his dorm.

But John was more fun.

He burst into John's office, the door barely open before he blurted, "I was wondering if you wanted to talk about my research paper. I found a few journal articles that seemed rather interesting."

John just raised an eyebrow. "It's generally considered polite to knock."

"We could grab coffee from off campus this time. I'm rather partial to the caramel macchiatos at Peet's, and they have an excellent tea selection." Sherlock twitched excitedly. Or perhaps that was just the nicotine.

"Well, I'm in the middle of a sentence. Can you give me 15 minutes to wrap this up and get ready to go?"

Sherlock, secretly thrilled, just rolled his eyes at John. "If you must."

John turned back to his laptop and carried on typing, and after a minute Sherlock realized that staring at him as he typed was most likely a bit not good.

"I'll wait for you in the lobby." He swivelled on his heel and strode out of the office in what he hoped was a suitably dramatic fashion. Sherlock never underestimated the value of impressive exits and entrances. Although he often wondered if John even noticed.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Ever since the conversation with his sister, John had been thinking almost constantly about Sherlock.

All weekend he had gone over their interactions - looking for a sign that Sherlock had a crush on John, that he was interested in some way. He still wasn't convinced.

But then John thought about his own reactions. He enjoyed spending time with Sherlock. He smiled when Sherlock entered the room. He always spent more time looking at Sherlock during lectures than the other students. He asked questions about Sherlock's personal life and answered questions about his own without qualms. Although he tried to be professional, there was a fine line between teacher and friend. He was Sherlock's friend, and Sherlock was his. And he cared about Sherlock more than was appropriate.

And that was the real problem. John wasn't positive that Sherlock had a crush on him. It was always possible, but the way he acted with John was the comfortable familiarity of peers and companions. And John had done nothing to stop it. He'd TA'd for Greg a few times, but no students had ever tried to get so close before.

Talking to his sister had made him confront head on what he had been trying to avoid thinking about for months. He was attracted to Sherlock. He was the one with a crush, not Sherlock. How could he have missed this for so long? Had anyone else noticed?

On Monday, he had taken Sherlock's demands in stride. That's just how he acted, John had reasoned. But then Sherlock had bought him tea and noticed how he liked to drink it. Sherlock had revealed that he'd read John's thesis and asked to see the printed version. And then John had practically flirted with him! And it didn't feel odd. How long had it been like this?

On Tuesday, Sherlock had come to office hours like he always did, and John had just stood in the doorway like an idiot. Why should he expect Sherlock to act differently? He wasn't the one who had just had a rude awakening.

On Wednesday, he noticed every time he looked over at Sherlock during lecture, and forced himself to look away. Seventeen times.

On Thursday, he was hyper aware of everything Sherlock was doing as he sat on the couch. John started nervously whenever Sherlock asked him a question, and he wrote the same sentence of his abstract five or six times, before finally giving up and doing sudoku puzzles online.

So when Sherlock had barged into his office without warning and asked to go to coffee, John was a jangle of nerves and knotted tension. He had fifteen minutes to steel himself before going to join Sherlock in the lobby, and he spent the time listening to the most soothing music he owned and talking himself down. He was a soldier. He had nothing to fear from a bratty eighteen-year-old, no matter how attractive he was.

John breathed in deeply and headed down to the lobby.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Once he got down to the lobby, Sherlock hesitated for a few minutes before pulling out his mobile to send a text.

**_Tell me how to gain John's attentions. -SH_**

**_Dare I presume that you are asking me for advice? To what do I owe this rare honour? -MH_**

**_Stuff it. I want to woo him. -SH_**

**_"Woo"? Seems a bit antiquated, don't you think? -MH_**

**_Are you going to help me or not? -SH_**

Sherlock sighed. He really didn't want to talk to Mycroft about this. But he couldn't tell if John wanted him, and it was driving him insane to keep guessing. He couldn't deduce anything from the man. He had such a calm exterior that Sherlock couldn't read him like other people. And it may have had something to do with his own involvement in the situation. Normally when he was trying to deduce something, he wouldn't get distracted by things like feelings. Or sexual desires.

**_How can I possibly help you, mon frère? I am not an expert in the art of seduction by any means. -MH_**

_**You know how I think. -SH**_

_**Indeed I do. And may I remind you that you are currently not of legal age to "woo" your intended target? -MH**_

_**That won't be a problem shortly. -SH**_

_**Two months may be longer than you think. -MH**_

_**I did not ask you for legal advice. What do I say? -SH**_

_**If you were intelligent, nothing. -MH**_  
_**But I know you better than that. Perhaps you should ask him for dating advice? He could tell you better than any how to ensnare him. -MH**_

_**That makes no sense. I don't want to know how he would attract someone. I want to know how to attract him. -SH**_

_**Do you have any better ideas? -MH**_

.x.x.x.x.x.

True to his word, John strode over to Sherlock's booth in the lobby precisely 14 minutes after their conversation. That was one of Sherlock's favourite things about John. He was so eminently reliable.

"Shall we?" John prompted, once he had Sherlock's attention.

"Yes, let's." Sherlock stood up and straightened his suit jacket. "Did you want to walk?"

John frowned slightly. "It's a bit far, isn't it? Why don't we just drive? My car's in the east parking structure."

Oh! Sherlock had yet to see John's choice of vehicle. He could learn a great deal from observing the state of John's car. "Excellent plan!" he stated, pleased, and was rewarded with one of John's amused smiles.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock seemed overly excited about John's car. John drove a green Subaru Outback (like everybody else in Boulder), but for some reason Sherlock seemed to want to inspect it. He circled the car, pointing out every minute scrape and ding and postulating on their origins. John merely watched in quiet amusement. After a few minutes, Sherlock seemed to get bored, and they were on their way to Peet's Coffee.

John's CD player was currently occupied by his latest acquisition of Snow Patrol, and Sherlock made a face as one of the sappier songs came on.

"You really enjoy this drivel? Don't you have anything good? Holst, perhaps?"

"Hey, you should be glad I'm not playing Bananarama or Bowie," John only half-joked. He did own a best of David Bowie CD set.

Sherlock gave him a blank look. "Who?"

"Oh, don't tell me you don't know them! Ugh. That's right, you weren't even alive when they were popular, were you? When were you born, anyway? Early '90s?"

"1995."

"Wait, really?" John did the subtraction in his head. "Oh my God, you're seventeen?"

Sherlock smirked. "Does that surprise you?"

John had known that Sherlock was young, but he had never speculated on exactly how young that was. "Well, a bit, I guess. I hadn't really thought about it."

He hadn't really thought about a lot of things.

And he wasn't about to start thinking about them now. Like the fact that Sherlock wasn't even legal yet. Not that it mattered. After all, it wasn't like John was going to sleep with Sherlock. Unfortunately, that thought triggered some very vivid imagery.

"Weren't you supposed to turn left back there?"

"Fuck! Sorry. Just pretend I didn't say that, would you?"

John cursed silently as he waited to make a u-turn. What was wrong with him? He was acting like a teenage girl with her first crush. He couldn't afford to be distracted by this. Not only would he alienate Sherlock, he could lose his job. He could go to jail... No. It wouldn't come to that.

They drove the rest of the way in silence. When he parked the car, John realized that Sherlock had been staring at him speculatively.

"Care to explain why your behaviour has been so erratic?"

"What?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Don't play dumb. You've been tense all day. Given enough time, I could deduce the problem, but I've been informed that it's polite to ask in these situations."

John grimaced. "Well, I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from doing either. It's not something I want to talk about." Especially not with Sherlock. "Let's just go in and talk about your paper, okay?"

Sherlock seemed taken aback, but he didn't press further and they walked into the coffee shop in silence. They each paid separately and then settled down at a table to wait for their drinks.

John broke the silence. "I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier. I've been stressed about something my sister said last week. It's-" _nothing to do with you?_Well, that would be a lie. "Not something you should worry about. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "Fine."

John's drink was called and he excused himself to go over to the bar to pick it up. As he was adding agave nectar and cream to his Earl Grey, Sherlock came up behind him and reached for the lids. His sleeve gently brushed against John's, and John nearly dropped the cream container in shock. Sherlock's arm was warm against his, and the touch felt electric. Sherlock blinked at John, surprised. "Are you alright?"

"Fine, you just startled me," John lied.

When they sat back down at their table, Sherlock looked askance at John and fidgeted with his drink. "I need some advice."

"Oh?"

"There's - someone I like, but they don't seem to know. And I don't want to scare them off. I realize I'm not the easiest person to like. So I was wondering, if you don't mind, could you tell me how you got your first girlfriend in uni?"

John just blinked. Why was Sherlock being so tentative? There must be some sort of ulterior motive. Then the content of his question finally sunk in. Sherlock was asking John for dating advice? Jesus.

"Uh, well, I just... asked her for her number, I guess?"

Sherlock frowned, and his shy demeanor vanished. "No, that won't work. What else?"

John laughed. "Everyone's different, Sherlock. Have you tried talking to her? Or him? I mean..."

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, I've talked to him."

"Just be yourself, I suppose. Although," John frowned, "you may end up scaring him off that way. You could probably tone it down a bit."

Sherlock glared. "Yes, thank you, John. I'm always delighted to be on the receiving end of insults about my inferior personality."

"You're not inferior! I'm not saying - look, you're just a bit overwhelming, sometimes. Most people tone themselves down when they first date someone. I was a lot nicer to Mary the first few months."

"Mary?"

"Erm. Mary Morstan. We were engaged."

"What happened?"

"What do you mean, what happened?"

"Well, you're not wearing a ring, are you? So obviously no wedding."

John glared. "If it's so obvious, why don't you just deduce it and spare me the trouble of telling you."

Sherlock looked slightly abashed, and John relented.

"Fine, it's just not terribly pleasant to talk about. We dated in undergrad, I proposed shortly before graduating, and she said she wanted to wait until after I got back from deployment to have the wedding. We drifted apart, a bit, in the time I was in Afghanistan, and when I came back..." John sighed heavily.

"Your injury caused her to treat you differently."

"Yes. She was always walking on eggshells, and it annoyed the hell out of me. I wasn't easy to get along with when I got back. Within a few months, she called off the engagement, and I didn't take it well. We've finally gotten back on speaking terms in the past couple of years."

Sherlock stayed silent, seemingly at a loss for words, a rare thing for him.

"So now that I've told you my life story, are you going to tell me about this guy you like?"

Sherlock actually blushed at this. "No, I - I'd better not. You know him."

"Oh, I do, do I? Well, if it's Greg, I hate to burst your bubble, but he's married."

Instead of laughing, Sherlock seemed to tense up.

"I was just kidding, you know. It's not Greg, is it?"

"No."

"Okay then..."

Sherlock reached inside his laptop bag and grabbed a sheath of papers. "I found three articles at the library."

John just shook his head at the sudden topic change and leaned over to look at the printouts.

.x.x.x.x.x.

That night, John looked up the sexual harassment policy on the CU website. There it was: "Conflict of Interest in Cases of Amorous Relationships." Current and past relationships between someone with direct power over someone else (teacher, boss, or otherwise) needed to be declared. Reading between the lines of the legalese, John determined that if he were in a relationship with a student, he would need to declare it to "the faculty member's unit head" (in his case, Greg, since he was department chair), and both parties were supposed to be present. Great. Wait, there it was, in the last paragraph:

_"It shall be an acceptable alternative to the procedures described in this section for the individual in the evaluative or supervisory position to recuse her/himself from exercising further direct supervision of the other party to the relationship, if this can be done within the unit without stating a reason."_

So he just needed to have someone else grade Sherlock's assignments. Sexual harassment was still a possibility, but at least no one could accuse him of abusing his power as an instructor.

Tomorrow he would talk to Greg. Then he wouldn't need to fear losing his job. He'd only have his sanity to worry about. And Sherlock.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Class on Friday was torture. Every time he glanced at Sherlock, he looked more and more amused, and John wondered how he must be acting to cause that sort of reaction. John managed to only get derailed from his lecture once, after Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. It was jarring enough that most of his students noticed. For the rest of the class period, the room was filled with loud whispers, and the students seemed restless.

John's concentration was shot, and finally enough was enough. He eyed the clock warily. It was only ten minutes before the normal end time, and he was just reiterating function parameters, anyway. "All right, guys. I'm going to let you out early today. I guess I'm ready to start my weekend as much as you are." There was a general rumble of appreciation from the students. "See you Monday."

Before the classroom had even emptied, John made a beeline for the seventh floor of the office tower, where the computer science offices were located. He needed to see Greg, and his nerves wouldn't let him wait until their three o'clock meeting.

When he knocked on Greg's office door, the older professor was seated at his desk, typing something on the laptop in front of him. When he saw John, Greg frowned and ushered him in. "Is something wrong? I have a meeting with the Associate Dean in fifteen minutes. Can you not make it to our meeting this afternoon?"

John closed the door behind him and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Greg. It's just - it should be quick. And yes, it could wait, but I might have a nervous breakdown if this goes on for any longer." John smiled at the feeble joke, but Greg's worried expression just deepened.

John eyed the chair in front of Greg's desk, but decided to stay on his feet, hovering just inside the doorway. "I need... I need you to do me a favor. I don't want to lose my job over this, and..." he paused, sucking in a deep breath, before continuing in a rush: "Can you take over grading for one of my students?"

Greg's brow furrowed in concern. "Has there been a conflict of interest?"

"You… could say that." John shifted uncomfortably.

"Wait. What, exactly… Did a student file a complaint?"

John just shook his head. "No, nothing like that. It's… more about me than the student, honestly."

Greg's eyes widened. "You're… not in a _relationship_with one of your students, are you?"

"No." John swallowed thickly. "No, I'm not, but… I'm definitely biased. I mean, I'm… it's... I can't in good conscience grade his assignments anymore." John paused. "I'm… well, I'm attracted to him."

"Him? Oh God."

John winced.

"Does he - know?"

"I doubt it. He may be a genius, but he seems pretty oblivious when it comes to emotions."

"Sherlock?"

John nodded mutely.

Greg sighed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. He looked at John with concern. "You know the standard way to deal with this involves the consent of both parties."

"I haven't told him yet. I don't know when I'll get a chance. Tuesday, I suppose."

Greg licked his lips, hesitant. "Are you sure - that's the best idea?"

"What, telling him that I'm attracted to him in a completely inappropriate, unprofessional, and illegal way?" John snapped. "No, it's a terrible idea. But what's the alternative? Lie to him? I can't keep ignoring this and pretending it'll go away."

Greg's eyes widened throughout John's tirade, but he made no move to speak. When John finally broke eye contact, Greg cleared his throat. "How long have you..."

"Been attracted? Probably since I met him. I didn't realize it until, um, a week ago, really." John looked back at Greg, trying to smile, and failing. "I suppose I have my sister to thank for that."

Greg just shifted in his seat, a pained expression on his face. His eyes flicked over to the closed office door behind John.

"Look," John added, as Greg avoided his eyes, "this past week has been hell. I just..." He trailed off, unsure of what he wanted to say.

"I'm sorry."

"I spent a long time last night reading over the amorous relationships policy. I don't need to do anything official as long as alternate arrangements are made. That's why I need you to do this for me."

Greg sighed. He still had his arms crossed tight against his chest, but he was looking at John again, his eyes full of sympathy.

"Yes, of course I'll do his grading. And this will be completely confidential, like normal." He hesitated. "Just - be careful, okay? Sherlock has some demons in his past. When I met him he was in a pretty bad way. I don't want either of you to get hurt."

"Thanks." John turned to leave.

"For what it's worth, I hope it works out." Greg sounded almost contrite, and John turned back to look at him. "I've never seen him happier than when he's with you. And to be honest, I could say the same about you." He smiled at John, a faint twist of the lips that was more sad than sweet. John couldn't bring himself to smile back, just nodded once before turning away.

John stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him. He wasn't sure if he felt better or worse.

.x.x.x.x.x.

John kept glancing at the clock nervously. Only 9:47. Two minutes since the last time he checked. Sherlock would be here sometime in the next half hour. John prayed that he would be early this morning.

Class on Monday had been fine, surprisingly. The decision to talk to Greg had cleared John's conscience somewhat, and since he had resolved to talk to Sherlock on Tuesday, he didn't feel a surge of guilt every time he happened to glance at him.

That night, however, had been awful. John had been up all night thinking of what he would say, terrified of how Sherlock would react. It was almost worse than his nightmares of the war. Almost.

9:50.

John fisted a hand in the hair at his scalp and tugged in frustration. This was absurd. He had been less anxious about his first date with Mary. Then again, he supposed there was more at stake this time. Would he be accused of abusing his power as an authority figure, or of committing statutory rape? Would Sherlock be disgusted? His thoughts kept drifting to potential sexual harrassment lawsuits and inquiries by the school board.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door opened, and Sherlock strolled in.

John hesitated.

"Do you mind if I close the door? There's - something I need to tell you."

"Good morning to you as well - nothing dire, I hope."

John pressed his lips together.

Sherlock looked slightly alarmed now, and he walked back to the door and shut it gently before turning back to face John. He hovered by the doorway, not sure where to go.

John stood and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"So. Last week you asked me why my behavior was so erratic." He paused. With Sherlock, the direct approach was usually best. "I'd just realized that I'm attracted to you."

Sherlock just stared.

John took a deep breath, determined not to lose his nerve until he'd finished. "I realize how inappropriate it is. I've talked to Greg, and he'll be grading your assignments for the semester. I understand if you need to take some time. You're well ahead of the material, so it won't matter if you miss class. Unfortunately, it's well past the drop deadline, but you can petition the dean if you feel you need to leave the class entirely. If you do stay, please understand that this won't affect your grade in any way."

John let out his breath in a rush. Sherlock wasn't saying anything. His stomach felt like a lead weight.

"I'm sorry," John said, breaking the silence.

"Whatever for?" Sherlock said softly.

"I..."

Sherlock was smiling. He was actually smiling.

"I wondered. I didn't want to say anything at the time."

"You...?" John was at a loss for words.

Sherlock waved one hand lazily in a gesture of dismissal, but his lips were still twisted in a smirk. "I don't have any plans to drop the class. You can stop panicking."

John just stood there like an idiot, as Sherlock walked back over to the door, opened it, and then strolled over to the couch and flopped down on it unceremoniously.

Well, that had gone... Better than expected.

"Are you just going to stand there?"

John sat down heavily in his office chair and swiveled to look at Sherlock. The younger man looked perfectly serene.

"So. Alright. I guess I'll get back to my blood flow article, then."

"Yes, how's that going? Ready to submit to any journals?"

John felt himself relaxing. "Yeah, this is actually the last bout of revisions, and then Greg is going to send it to a couple of places next week." He flashed a sheepish grin at Sherlock before turning back to his laptop.

John and Sherlock fell back into their regular easy banter, and it felt almost as though nothing had changed. Perhaps nothing had.

.x.x.x.x.x.

The next few days had been better. John hadn't stopped thinking about Sherlock, but it was a weight off his shoulders to no longer worry about it affecting his teaching. He'd thrown the idea of a proper teacher-student relationship out the window when he'd talked to Greg on Friday, and now he was just going to try and keep Sherlock's friendship without scaring him off. That part should be easy. Sherlock's non-reaction to John's confession had gone so smoothly that John had started to worry that he'd imagined it. But then Sherlock would catch his eye during class and _wink_. The first few times John had been so flustered he had actually lost his place in the lecture, to the amusement of his students.

For his part, Sherlock had returned to his normal, obnoxious self, pestering John during office hours, and continually sending John text messages when he was bored or he had a question for John.

On Wednesday, John was in his office chatting with Jim and Molly about the second midterm exam, when his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.

"Let me check this." He pulled out his phone and saw, as always, it was from Sherlock.

**_What classes are you teaching next semester? Anything interesting? I'm about to sign up for next semester's courses. -SH_**

He smiled and slid the phone back into his pocket.

"Sherlock again?" Molly asked, grinning mischievously.

John rolled his eyes. "How'd you guess?" he asked dryly.

Jim's eyes crinkled and he flashed a toothy smile. "Who else has your cell phone number? And texts you constantly?"

"Yes, well. I have other friends, you know."

"Interesting word choice. You also have other students, and they don't text your personal phone." Jim was smirking and eyeing John knowingly.

Molly giggled and elbowed Jim in the side. "Don't say that, Jim. Sherlock could use a friend."

"And I'm sure any one of us would be happy to offer him our friendship," Jim replied smoothly. "Nothing wrong with that. Obviously. One wonders if that's all you're offering." He quirked an eyebrow, and John fought off a blush.

"I don't know what you mean," John said, attempting to keep a straight face and failing miserably, judging by Molly's grin and Jim's amused smirk. "I'll be expecting your third of the multiple choice questions by next Monday for review. I don't think I need to keep you any longer." He nodded at Jim and Molly and started to turn back to his desk.

"Of course, Dr. Watson. I'll have those for you by Monday, if not sooner," Jim said politely, his face smoothing out into a mask of professionalism.

Molly seemed to have no such concerns. "Bye, John!" she called cheerfully.

John waited until the door had shut before letting out a shaky breath. Jim's words echoed in his ears, and he sighed and rubbed his temples as he retrieved his smart phone from his jeans pocket. It didn't matter what he was willing to offer Sherlock, anyway.

**_I'm co-teaching a class with Lestrade that you might be interested in, a biocomputing projects class. It's cross-listed at the graduate level. CSCI 4303. JW_**

A few minutes later, he got a reply from Sherlock.

**_10am MWF? I'm enrolled. -SH_**

John smiled as he turned back to his research. It looked like Sherlock was going to stick around for a while longer.


	6. Side-Effects

_**Author's Note**_

_Hello readers! I hope you are having as much fun reading this story as I did writing it. Thanks so much for all the reviews and favorites - I haven't had a chance yet to respond to comments, as I have been working hard on finishing the last chapter! But I wanted you to know how much it makes me smile to read your kind words._

_This may have been my favorite chapter to write. Let the flirting commence! :)_

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**Chapter 6: Side-Effects**_

The campus exploded into reds and yellows as the days marched into autumn. John was so busy writing research papers, helping students with questions, and planning study sessions, that before he knew it, classes were letting out for the Thanksgiving holiday.

Just like the last five years, he spent the day in his apartment eating roast chicken and instant mashed potatoes from the supermarket and avoiding his sister's phone calls. He did get a few texts from Sherlock, though, mostly to the effect of how much he hated Mycroft and his relatives. Apparently his mother had missed Thanksgiving terribly when she was living in England, and had insisted that Sherlock and Mycroft join her every year after moving back to Colorado.

John had no illusions of ever being more than friends with Sherlock, but that didn't keep him from thinking about it. Sherlock hadn't brought up his crush again, and the last time John had inquired about it, he had clammed up and refused to communicate to John except via text message.

**_You act like a five-year-old some days, you know that? JW_**

**_Perhaps I simply want to keep certain things private. -SH_**

**_You can just say you don't want to tell me. Unlike some people, I won't keep asking if I know it's not wanted. JW_**

**_It's not that simple. -SH_**

**_And how is giving me the silent treatment going to accomplish anything? JW_**

**_I'm not giving you the silent treatment. I'm texting you right now, aren't I? -SH_**

**_It's silent if you won't say anything aloud. Stop pouting. JW_**

"I'm not pouting."

"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Sherlock had simply rolled his eyes in response.

.x.x.x.x.x.

During the first week of December, on a chilly Monday afternoon, John received a vaguely threatening email from the Associate Dean of the Engineering College.

* * *

**From:** Office of the Dean  
**Sent:** Monday, December 3, 2012 2:03 PM  
**To:** John Watson  
**Subject:** Recent Grading Request  
**Attachment:** HR_Form221B

Dr. Watson,

It has come to our attention that you have requested a special grading arrangement for one of your students. We understand that you have followed protocol in this case, but the Office of the Dean would like to address some concerns regarding the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Please fill out the attached form and return it at your earliest convenience.

Thank you,

MH  
Associate Dean  
College of Engineering  
UCB 243

* * *

_Fuck._

John closed his laptop, got out of his chair, and walked calmly over to Greg's door.

Greg was inside, sitting at his desk and typing something at his computer, but he looked up when he heard John approach.

"Is something wrong? You look a bit... pale."

John frowned. He was probably overreacting, but... "I just got an email from the Associate Dean. About Sherlock."

Greg burst out laughing.

John lifted an eyebrow in confusion, and Greg stopped laughing and fixed him with an incredulous stare. "You... do know who that is, right? The Associate Dean?" He paused. "Mycroft Holmes? Sherlock's older brother?"

"Wait, what?"

Greg grinned as John huffed out a sigh and stomped back to his own office.

John spent the next twenty minutes composing a politely-worded email, saying that he and Sherlock were just friends, and that if Mycroft had any issues, he should feel free to come to John's office to discuss them in person.

Mycroft did drop by the following day, with a jar of Earl Grey loose-leaf tea from John's favorite tea shop on Pearl Street. John recognized him as the well-tailored young man who sat in the back row at departmental meetings and who sometimes dropped by Greg's office with "official business."

"Dr. Watson. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Mycroft stuck a hand out for John to shake. He set down the tea gingerly on John's desk before leaning back, an umbrella dangling over one arm.

(And why did he have an umbrella indoors, anyway? It wasn't like it rained often in Boulder.)

"You just missed Sherlock," John noted, with a grin. "He's usually here until three."

"Yes, I know," Mycroft said. His lips twisted in the same faint smirk that John often saw on Sherlock's face. It disappeared quickly, however, to be replaced by a bland smile. "Sherlock does tend to fuss when I drop by. I decided it would be easier on both of us if I were to wait until he had gone to class."

"Well, would you like to sit?" John waved a hand toward the shabby pink couch and suddenly felt rather self-conscious.

Mycroft simply flashed that same enigmatic smile. "Oh, no, thank you, Doctor. This won't take long. I was just wondering how my little brother has been doing."

"Fine, I suppose? He's doing well in class, and he doesn't bother me, if that's what you're asking." John settled back in his own office chair; no point in being uncomfortable simply because Mycroft Holmes, Associate Dean, was refusing to sit.

"Of course. I do worry, you know. He's not the... easiest person in the world, as you must know by now."

John just smiled.

"I was hoping you could keep an eye on him, actually."

John lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and press his thin lips tightly together. "He does tend to get into mischief. I may be willing to speak to the board on your behalf if you could prevent him from doing anything... drastic. I know that instructors are not paid as well as tenure-track professors, and you have received positive feedback from several of the computer science faculty."

"_Not paid as well_? Look, whatever you're trying to imply-" John paused. "Wait, what do you mean by _drastic_?"

Mycroft pointedly pulled a pocketwatch out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "Ah, look at the time. It appears I'm late for a meeting with the President. I look forward to our next meeting, Doctor."

As Mycroft strode out the door, John couldn't help but wonder if he meant the President of the University, or of the United States.

John recounted Mycroft's visit after class on Wednesday, and after scowling profusely over his brother's "insufferable meddling," Sherlock insisted on taking the jar of tea back to his dorm to analyze for poisons. John refused to let him take the entire thing, since he knew he'd never see it again, and just gave him a sample.

Sherlock had almost seemed disappointed when he saw John on Thursday morning. Apparently, all his tests for various deadly chemicals had come back negative.

As Sherlock settled back onto John's couch, typing up his final French essay for the semester, John couldn't help but wonder how long he could keep doing this.

John liked to think he wasn't a man who would pine over something he couldn't have. And yet, the more time he spent with Sherlock, the more he could feel himself getting drawn in. He'd started dreaming about Sherlock. And now when he saw Sherlock during office hours the slow building of tension had become almost unbearable.

He could handle it. He was a soldier. But the desire still ate away at him.

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_I've moved back in with Mummy and Mycroft. This must be some form of torture. I couldn't even keep my experiments going during break. They made us remove everything. -SH_**

**_A shame. You won't be able to burn down the dorm in your absence. JW_**

**_Not all of my experiments are dangerous. -SH_**

**_Only the interesting ones, right? JW_**

**_Some of them are still in progress. -SH_**

**_I thought you said you had to take them out of your dorm. JW_**

**_Well, some of them are psychological experiments. -SH_**

**_Great. How many experiments have I been the subject of so far? JW_**

**_Only seven. I'm rather pleased with most of the results. There is one ongoing experiment that has yet to yield anything. -SH_**

**_I don't want to know, do I? JW_**

**_No. Probably not. -SH_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_I hate the doctor's. -SH_**

**_Good thing I didn't go back to med school then. JW_**

**_You would have been fine. You're not an idiot. -SH_**

**_Thanks, I think. JW_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_Happy Christmas. -SH_**

**_Merry Christmas to you, too. JW_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_Doing anything interesting for New Year's? -SH_**

**_Getting drunk, most likely. JW_**

**_Save some for me. -SH_**

**_Yeah, right. JW_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_I'm about to buy my first legal pack of cigarettes. Care to join me? -SH_**

**_They'll kill you, you know. JW_**

**_Yes, but they're so much more satisfying than the nicotine patches. -SH_**

**_You use nicotine patches? Aren't those also age restricted? JW  
Wait, you're 18 now? When did that happen? JW_**

**_Today's my birthday. And I've used patches since I was 16. Mycroft always bought them for me. -SH_**

**_Happy birthday. Where should I meet you? JW_**

**_King Sooper's on 30th and Arapahoe? -SH_**

**_Meet you there in 15 minutes. JW_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_Moving back into the dorm today. -SH_**

**_Need any help? JW_**

**_No, I should be fine. Mycroft said he would help me and I wouldn't want to miss out on the opportunity. -SH_**

**_Be nice to him. JW_**

**_Why would I want to do that? -SH_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_Bored. -SH_**

**_Where are you? JW_**

**_In my dorm room. -SH_**

**_If you wanted to join me, I was thinking of going to the park. JW_**

**_My bicycle is still at my mother's. -SH_**

**_We could walk. JW_**

**_That would be acceptable. -SH_**

**_I'll meet you outside in 10. JW_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

"So, how is Sherlock?"

"Same as always. You can ask him yourself on Monday. He's signed up for our class."

"Really? I thought there were prerequisites..."

"I signed his petition to waive those. It's not like he needs to take data structures; he's already gone through all the material for the class."

"If you say so. I'm a bit worried about him being the only freshman."

"He'll be fine."

"It's a group projects course, though."

"He'll be _fine_, Greg."

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock smiled as he packed his shoulder bag. The first day of John and Lestrade's projects class had seemed promising. Sherlock was a bit uneasy at the prospect of working in a group, however; he'd have to ask John if he could work on his own instead. Lost in thought, Sherlock was just about to leave for his 11:00 class, when he was approached by one of the graduate students.

"I'm Jim Moriarty, nice to meet you." The older student smiled boyishly at Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, I know. I've heard lots about you. I was the other TA in your class last semester. Molly and Dr. Watson seem to think you're the second coming."

"Oh?"

"Well, you're the youngest person in this class, aren't you?"

"I hadn't noticed." That was a lie. Sherlock had noticed everything he could about his classmates. Five graduate students, eight undergrads, five of which were seniors trying to fulfil their last elective credit before graduation. Two of them were a couple, and the male had only agreed to take the class at his girlfriend's insistence. He started to turn towards the door.

"Of course not. Just like you hadn't noticed Dr. Watson's limp."

Sherlock whirled to face the older student. Sherlock had noticed that John's leg had been acting up lately, and he wasn't sure why. It was incredibly frustrating. But if Jim had also noticed...

Jim's eyes were glittering with mirth, but his smile seemed genuine. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you. Have a good rest of your day, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled. He would certainly be seeing more of Jim.

They thought the same way, brains running feverishly through conclusions and logic, making connections at lightning speed. He knew this without ever asking, just as he knew Jim without ever having talked to him before. It was in the way Jim's eyes flicked back and forth when he entered a room. It was in the satisfaction of Jim's smirk when he saw the same things Sherlock did. It was in the casual tension of Jim's shoulders when he was asked a question, in the split second before he answered, as he worked through possible solutions with the intensity of a laser beam, of a surgical knife, cutting through the problem like light through glass.

_Oh, this one's clever._ Sherlock watched Jim's retreating figure with interest.

.x.x.x.x.x.

The semester had started uneventfully, and John was settling back into a routine. He and Greg still met on Fridays, where they would split the grading for their projects class. Since the class was so small, they didn't need any help from graduate students. He almost missed his weekly meetings with Jim and Molly. Mostly he missed Molly - he still saw Jim during class, and he'd never been particularly close to Jim anyway.

He now had two pink couches in his office, since Sherlock was a semi-permanent fixture in one of them. His office hours had switched to 1pm - 4pm on Tuesday and Thursday, yet Sherlock still came every morning at 10am. John wasn't sure if Sherlock hadn't noticed the change, or he was willfully ignoring it.

John had expected it to get easier to ignore his feelings for Sherlock as time went by. But every day wore on him a bit more. He felt guilty when he thought of Sherlock late at night, and resentful when Sherlock came to his office and blithely ignored his personal space the following day. He had forgotten how bad it felt to want someone like this.

Still, he couldn't separate himself from Sherlock. As much as it hurt to be near him, he couldn't stop himself. And even if he'd tried, he probably couldn't have stopped Sherlock. The boy didn't understand the meaning of the word "no."

.x.x.x.x.x.

When John got out of his Friday afternoon meeting with Lestrade, he checked his phone for messages and was surprised to see three texts from Sherlock.

**_I'm going to Pearl Street this weekend. Care to join me? -SH  
I know you don't have anything better to do. Laundry doesn't count. -SH  
Come with me. Saturday. It'll be fun. -SH_**

A day alone with Sherlock? As much as he wanted it, every second spent with Sherlock had been torture lately. Against his better judgment, he typed out a reply.

**_What time? JW_**

The response came almost immediately.

**_11:30. Meet me outside the front entrance of the engineering building. Bring your bicycle. -SH_**

Something warm flared in John's gut at the words. He was an idiot. This was a terrible idea. Somehow, he couldn't wait for Friday to be over.

.x.x.x.x.x.

At 11:24am on Saturday, John pulled into the large parking lot east of the engineering center and unstrapped his bike from the back of his Subaru. He hopped on and biked under the building, admiring the trees in the courtyard as he sped by, hopping off when he hit the stairwell and hauling his bicycle up the stairs on his good shoulder. Sherlock was waiting at the top, looking decidedly too cultured for a bike ride, his purple button-down shirt clinging slightly to his skin. A cigarette dangled from his fingers as he breathed out a soft plume of tobacco smoke. John coughed as the smell drifted his way.

"You know, you're not supposed to smoke so close to the school entrance."

Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards in his familiar almost-smile. "I'll keep that in mind." He strode over to the nearest ashtray and tossed his cigarette in, then slung his leg over his bicycle and turned to look back at John. "Ready?"

"You don't have a helmet."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Astute observation."

"I won't bike with you again if you don't get a helmet."

"Fine, fine, I'll purchase a helmet if I ever want to endure your company again. Shall I lead the way?"

"No, I'll go ahead. I like to take the long way - more scenic, and then you don't need to tempt death by riding down Folsom Hill without a helmet. We're going to Pearl Street, right?"

Sherlock nodded and kicked off.

John biked past Sherlock, glanced back to make sure he was following, and started on the long and familiar path through campus.

Up past the geology building, down through the abandoned parking lot, on the wide sidewalks between the physics building and the biology building, past the library and through the section that demanded bikes dismount even though no students ever did. Out to the green fields by humanities where he had sat and eaten lunches with Mary, where they had thousands of flags on veteran's day to memorialize fallen soldiers. Up past the psychology and language buildings where he had taken Italian in an attempt to woo the freshmen girls.

Out to the very edge of campus, by the shops on the hill where he had attended drunken parties and eaten late night burritos and purchased music from college kids who were far more hip than he ever hoped to be. Down the hill through the trails he had walked with his fellow graduate students, zipping past intersections he had driven past a thousand times when he was living in his tiny studio apartment up in North Boulder, the one which had mold in the walls and gravel in the water pipes and broken glass in the parking lot and drug deals in the apartment block across the street.

Up to the bus station where he had tried to get back the scarf and hat Mary had knit for him after he had left them on the bus, and was too mortified to admit that he'd lost until three weeks later. And finally to Pearl Street, where he had walked with friends and lovers on sunny afternoons just like this one.

Sherlock pulled up beside him and dismounted. John was momentarily distracted by the way Sherlock's breathing had quickened and his forehead shone with sweat. "That was a good route. I'll have to remember that."

They locked up their bikes and then Sherlock turned to John, grinning. "Shall we?"

Sherlock led the way by a few paces, his long legs forcing John to occasionally break into a jog to catch up. "So where are we going, anyway?"

"Bayleaf. It's a store that sells imported European culinary items. I think you'll like it - you like cooking, after all."

John blinked in surprise. "How'd you know I like cooking?"

Sherlock tilted his head and smiled mysteriously. "One, you often come to office hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays with bits of your breakfast on your clothing. Usually hot breakfast - eggs, catsup, flour, and once cocoa powder, presumably from a batch of pancakes you were trying to liven up." He ticked off points on his fingers as he spoke. "Two, you are a bachelor, and you'd mentioned that if you had a girlfriend, you'd eat better, yet you rarely go out to eat, indicating that even though you'd prefer to cook for an audience, you do so for yourself as well. Most men your age would just get take away. Three, you always bring your lunch, instead of eating out. Some of this can be explained by your frugality, but often you bring meals that require effort to prepare and are obviously homemade."

Sherlock beamed at John, as he always did these days when sharing one of his deductions. John smiled back in kind. "Amazing. As always."

"I know." Sherlock smirked, but the tips of his ears were pink.

They entered the store and John drew in a breath of surprise. The inside was beautiful. Postcards lined the walls, and further back there were corridors, nooks, and crannies decorated like different countries. They paused a bit in "France" and Sherlock pointed out the painted doorways and cloth breadbaskets made with bright fabrics. They wandered through the store and John spent a bit too long gazing at the white truffle oil in the Italy section when Sherlock finally lost his patience and grabbed John by the wrist. "Come on, I want to show you the English section!"

John allowed himself to be tugged along, trying very hard to ignore the warmth of Sherlock's fingers as he gripped his wrist. This was the most he'd been touched by anyone in years, and the physical contact almost burned. Warmth pooled in John's stomach, and he tried to think of something, anything other than Sherlock. Even though they had been touching for less than a minute, when Sherlock dropped John's hand, he involuntarily let out a sigh of relief.

Sherlock ignored John's utterance and instead pointed excitedly at the items on the narrow shelves in front of them. "Look, custard powder! And golden syrup! Well, alright, I've never used either, but Mummy likes to bake, and she says that it's hard to find them here. She made treacle tart last Thanksgiving, have you tried it?" His attention moved on before John had a chance to respond. "Oh look, I love this brand of tea biscuits. Wait, clotted cream fudge? That looks disgusting."

John smiled as Sherlock murmured excitedly, pointing out his favorite brand of shortbread cookies and looking confused when John snickered at the spotted dick in a can. "I'll tell you when you're older," John joked.

"You're so juvenile. I thought age was supposed to indicate maturity."

"Clearly not. I wouldn't spend so much time with you if that were true." John smiled at Sherlock. "I'm starving. Did you want to get lunch?"

John grabbed the clotted cream fudge just to see if it was as disgusting as Sherlock had surmised, and Sherlock bought custard powder for his mother and a legal-size paper with "Keep Calm and Carry On" printed on it to hang in his dorm room. "I feel properly English now," he remarked, his mouth twitching with the effort to keep a straight face.

"Okay, you chose the first place," John said as they exited the store, "so I get to choose where we have lunch. Let's go to Pizza Colore. I have some good memories of eating there during undergrad. We can see if their pizza is still any good."

They sat in the back of the narrow restaurant munching on their pizza slices and chatting about odd topics - what concentration of hydrochloric acid one would need to eat through glass test tubes (higher than Sherlock could get his hands on), and how many frogs John had ended up dissecting in undergrad (more than five, fewer than twelve). John offered to break out the fudge he'd bought, when Sherlock stopped him. "There's an excellent gelato place on the West end of the mall. You chose lunch, so it's my turn."

They exited Pizza Colore and strolled over to the gelato shop, marveling at the unseasonably warm weather, the girl playing a didgeridoo, the man juggling knives on a unicycle, and the contortionist who managed to cram himself into a 2'x2' glass cube. Sherlock actually stopped and stared at that last display for several minutes. The sight had always made John queasy.

They finally reached the store - "Two Spoons Soup & Gelato" - and John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. Soup? Sherlock just smiled blandly and held the door open for John.

"Hello, Angelo."

"Sherlock! It's wonderful to see you again. How is Mycroft? Still on a diet?" Sherlock scowled at the mention of his brother but smirked at the diet comment.

"He's still an insufferable git, last I checked. What do you recommend today?"

"I like the chocolate coconut sorbetto, myself, but I think you would prefer the raspberry."

"Look, John, they have Earl Grey today." Sherlock tapped at the case. "We'll have one small raspberry, and a medium Earl Grey."

"Right away! Special discount for you and your date." Angelo winked at John.

John protested, "I'm not his date," and Sherlock turned and raised a single eyebrow at him. John could feel himself blushing.

"Of course. That will be 5.57."

Sherlock wordlessly retrieved his credit card and the two cups of ice cream, and settled at a table in the corner, sitting with his back to the wall. When John finally met his eyes, he saw that the younger man was smirking.

"Oh, shut up."

"I didn't say anything, John."

"No, but you were thinking it."

"Your deductive skills are improving." Sherlock reached over and snagged a taste of John's Earl Grey gelato.

John frowned and poked at his ice cream. After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock set down his spoon and cleared his throat pointedly.

"Are you going to pout all afternoon? Your gelato will melt."

"I'm not pouting!" He bit down on his spoon, glaring at Sherlock. He let the gelato melt slowly, the cold making the roof of his mouth tingle. The flavor was subtle, and not overly sweet, but reminded John of the cambrics that Sherlock would buy for him on occasion. John smiled at the memory before remembering that he was annoyed with Sherlock, and he quickly covered his expression with a frown.

"One would almost think you're trying too hard, John. You shouldn't let it bother you."

The gelato was quite good, and it was hard to maintain a glare in the face of Sherlock's calm amusement.

"Let what bother me?" John quipped, feigning innocence.

"You know exactly what."

He should know better than to play dumb with Sherlock. "Fine, yes, it bothered me. We're not on a date."

"And what is your definition of a date, exactly?"

John nearly choked on his ice cream. "Erm. It's where two people who are... _attracted_ to each other... go do something fun together?"

Sherlock said nothing, instead pointedly raising an eyebrow, smirking wickedly, and licking at the glistening raspberry sorbetto on his spoon. The sight of Sherlock's pink tongue flicking out to caress the shimmering red mound made John's guts roil.

He reluctantly dragged his eyes away. "Look, we only have half of that. Right?"

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, saying nothing, his gaze inscrutable, and John suddenly felt very exposed.

"What?"

Sherlock simply shrugged elegantly and stole another spoonful of John's gelato.

"Hey! You have your own. What do you keep stealing mine for?"

"Maybe I like yours better."

John pushed his cup over to Sherlock. "Well, in that case, you can have the rest."

Sherlock frowned. "Now I don't want it."

"Oh, so you only want it if it's mine?"

"Obviously." Sherlock pushed it back towards John and stole another spoonful, before abruptly pushing his chair back and leaping to his feet. "Well, is there anywhere else you wanted to go? There's a very nice tea shop not far from here. Or shall we head back?"

John couldn't help but break into a nervous laugh at Sherlock's abruptness. "Let's just go back. After all, we'll need something to do next time."

"Indeed." Sherlock looked inordinately pleased after John's mention of next time, and glibly strolled off towards the exit, with the occasional backwards glance to make sure John was following.

If John had been tense before, the odd conversation with Sherlock had left him practically vibrating with nerves. He kept torturing himself thinking about Sherlock's smirk. Or his tongue, flicking out to collect ice cream. Or the long elegant fingers that ran a trail along the bottom of the ice cream cup, to go straight into Sherlock's mouth - alright, that was it. Time to think about something else. His sister, perhaps.

"John?" Sherlock was staring at him now.

"Sorry?"

"Are you leading the way, or am I?"

John realized with a start that Sherlock was already sitting astride his bicycle. "Oh. You can. I mean. If you want." He turned to stare at his bike lock intently as he unlocked it with a slight tremble of his hand. What about Sherlock made him turn into a complete idiot? He had a PhD, for Pete's sake. He finally finished securing his helmet and looked up to see Sherlock gazing at him intently, expression unreadable. "Ready?" John prompted.

He received a curt nod in response, and then Sherlock kicked off. A few minutes into the ride, John realized his mistake. With Sherlock in front of him, and without knowing what route he would take, he found he needed to keep his eyes fixed on the lithe figure. Well, he might as well make the best of it. John Watson was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and after all, the view was quite nice.

.x.x.x.x.x.

"Enjoy the view?" Sherlock asked John when they finally pulled up to the campus parking lot.

"Wh-what?" John sputtered.

"The creek, of course," Sherlock replied, smirking, "It's beautiful this time of year, don't you think?"

"Oh, yeah. Very nice."

"Unless you were looking at something else." Sherlock kept his face a perfect mask of innocence.

John glared. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you've been flirting with me all afternoon. You'd best be careful not to give a guy the wrong impression."

"Shame. I was hoping you might get the right impression." Sherlock shrugged and smiled coyly at John. "Perhaps next time. I'll see you on Monday - professor."

Sherlock hopped back on his bike and turned down the familiar path to his dormitory. He could feel John's eyes on his back as he rode away.


	7. Friend Function

_**Chapter 7: Friend Function**_

__John needed to talk to someone.

He needed a friend, and he didn't have many options these days. He'd rather gnaw off a limb than talk to his sister about his love life, or lack thereof, and most of his friends from college and the army were scattered to the four winds. His work colleagues were too close to the situation for comfort, and he'd already had enough awkward conversations with Greg to last a lifetime. There was really only one person he could think of to reach out to. He pulled out his cell phone and selected the familiar number.

**_I'm an idiot._**

The response came fourteen minutes later.

**_Yes, generally. What have you done this time?_**

It took John ten minutes to compose the reply.

**_I've fallen for one of my students._**

**_Uh oh. Do I need to come over for an emergency intervention?_**

**_Please. I'll order Chinese._**

**_Alright, I've let Tom know. On my way._**

John placed a delivery order from the Chinese place down the street and shuffled about straightening up the few things that were out of place. In truth, he didn't own enough things to create clutter, and he found himself thinking of Sherlock as he puttered about the apartment. When the knock finally sounded at the door, John was startled out of his reverie only to discover he had been re-alphabetizing his biology textbooks over and over.

John went to open the door, and Mary Morstan smiled back at him.

"I brought emergency supplies," she said, holding up a pint of Ben and Jerry's and a copy of The Princess Bride.

He eyed the movie suspiciously. "You really think this is a good time to watch a movie about true love?"

"It's also about pirates. You can't go wrong with pirates."

John laughed and motioned her inside. "Alright, start it up. Food should be here in fifteen minutes." He popped the ice cream in the freezer and headed over to the sink to fill the tea kettle. "So. It's been a while."

"I should say. Last time I talked to you, was what, eight months ago? You called to brag about passing your thesis defense."

"Yep. Since then, um, let's see. Greg got me a teaching position at the college. I'm still doing research, but I've been teaching the intro programming class, and we're currently co-teaching a biological computing projects class."

"And you're dating a student?"

"No, not dating," he sighed, struggling to figure out exactly what he had been doing with Sherlock. "Flirting, I guess."

"How many years has it been?"

He was quiet for a few moments. "Too many."

"Damn straight. Have you even had a girlfriend since-" The whistle of the kettle interrupted Mary mid-sentence, and John scrambled for the kitchen. He didn't like the direction this conversation was going.

He poured two mugs - genmaicha green tea for him, cinnamon hot chocolate for Mary - and brought them out to the living room. He settled down in the corner of the couch opposite Mary and pulled his legs up on the middle cushion. "I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about it."

Mary just smiled at him over her hot chocolate. "The night is young. I'll get it out of you yet."

John just shook his head ruefully and reached for the remote.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Food arrived shortly after the movie started up, and they spent a pleasant hour munching on egg rolls and reciting favorite lines along with the characters. During the Miracle Max scene, Mary jumped up and headed over to the kitchen to grab the ice cream. John scooted over to make room and Mary sat down next to him, handed him a spoon, and started digging in to the pint.

"You remembered my weakness for Cherry Garcia."

"And you know my weakness for gossip. So, it's your turn. I'm expecting you to earn your ice cream."

John sighed. "I - met a freshman in my intro course last semester. We... well, we sort of went on a date today. I didn't even think about it as a date until someone beat me over the head with it." He grimaced at the memory of Angelo's wink. "And I've been attracted for months, and I can't stop thinking about- I swear I'm going to go out of my mind."

Mary grinned. "So tell me about her. What's she like?"

John winced inwardly at Mary's assumption. "Tall. Scruffy, almost black hair. Skinny. Dry sense of humor. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Plays the violin. And," his blush deepened, "damn sexy."

Mary giggled and jabbed John in the ribs. "Sounds charming."

"Oh yeah, super charming. And, well, um. How do I put it. Yeah. He. He's. Male. Very male, actually. A bit of an alpha male. He's arrogant and confident to the point of narcissism sometimes. Oh, don't look at me like that, Mary."

Mary was looking a bit shell-shocked, and, although he had figured she'd be fairly accepting of this revelation about his sexuality, it wasn't something he'd advertised, and her silence was making him nervous. He picked at the ice cream in silence.

"Jesus, John, when I joked about putting you off women, I didn't think it would actually..." She trailed off and just stared at the television. "Ooh, quiet, I love this scene."

They watched with rapt attention as Inigo Montoya confronted Count Rugen, and when the scene was over, Mary turned back to him with a tentative smile, mouth just lifting at the corners, and her gaze fixed somewhere in the vicinity of John's left ear.

"So, since when have you, well, swung that way?"

John let out the breath he'd been holding and some of his tension went out with it. "Afghanistan? That's when I first noticed it, I guess. But really, since always, I suppose. Just because I never acted on it doesn't mean it wasn't there."

Mary was silent a few moments.

"Is that why… after you got back from Afghanistan…"

"Why what?" John frowned.

"Why you were so distant. Were you in love with someone else? Did you realize you were gay, that you weren't attracted to me anymore?"

"God! No, Mary, I'm not gay. And no. I wasn't in love with anyone other than you."

"But you just said…"

"I'm bi. I still like women. I still liked _you_."

Mary averted her eyes and sat sucking on her spoon, even after the ice cream was long gone.

"Did you… while you were deployed…"

"Did I what? Cheat on you with a man? No. I've only ever slept with a guy once, and that was - well, it was after us." He sighed. "I never cheated on you, with anyone, man or woman. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I was sort of freaked out about it, myself."

Mary chewed on her lip for a few minutes.

"How did I not notice?"

John squeezed Mary's hand in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "It's not like I noticed, either. Took me 30 years to figure out."

She chuckled a little at John's joke before her expression clouded with concern once more.

"And he's your student? It's a bit... I mean, couldn't you lose your job? Dating a student?"

"Technically, it's fine. I actually already told Greg about it, since this has been going on for months, and I didn't want to worry about violating the sexual harassment policy. If someone else does the grading, there shouldn't be an issue. At least, not with my job."

"Alright. So - is he not interested in you that way?"

"I don't really know. I can't tell. I've been bottling it up for so long... He just turned eighteen last month, and he's my student, and a friend. Today he was just so odd. And he's winked at me during class before. But, um, it's never really been an option. I couldn't - I couldn't dare think..."

John buried his face in his hands. He was a mess. He had been a mess since he'd realized he was attracted to Sherlock. Why, of all people, did it have to be Sherlock?

"Hey, it's okay. Tell me about him."

"He's... gorgeous. And so smart, my God. He finished the contents of the intro class during the first three weeks."

"Well, that tells me about how _you_ feel, but not about him."

"He - here, just read this."

He dug his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped over to display Sherlock's messages. Every conversation had been initiated by Sherlock. John had always been very careful about that. He handed the phone to Mary wordlessly, and then watched as her expression turned from concern to amazement, to amusement, to wistfulness.

"I remember when Tom and I would talk like that," she said, after a long pause.

John just stared sullenly at the ice cream.

"John-" she started, before hesitating. "I think you- I think you need to keep this one."

"Keep? I don't have him in the first place."

"He's crazy about you."

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

"What?"

"Have you even read these, John?"

She pulled up the most recent message.

**_I had a nice time today. Please ignore what I said afterwards. –SH_**

"What did he say?"

"He - I'd said - that he seemed to be flirting, and he sort of - um, it was along the lines of, I said he should be careful not to give me the wrong impression, and he said he was trying to give the right impression..." He trailed off. "It made sense at the time," he finished, lamely.

"What? Never mind." Mary sighed in frustration. "You can be amazingly stupid sometimes, John."

"Hey!"

"No, I don't want to hear it. This man texts you all the time. All. The. Time. I did the same thing with Tom when I met him. I did the same thing with you! I just wanted to be with you - with Tom - talk to him, as much as I could, as often as I could. Even though I wasn't sure if he felt the same way. You should tell him how you feel, at least."

John fidgeted. "Um, I already have..."

"What? When?"

"Months ago. Not too long after I gave him my number."

Mary scrolled through John's messages. "Show me."

John found the first text Sherlock had sent after John's confession.

**_I'm glad it wasn't anything dire. -SH_**

**_Says you. JW_**

**_You're so over-dramatic. -SH_**

**_That's a bit much, coming from you, Mr. Drama Queen. JW_**

"What did he mean, dire?"

John thought back. "When I told him I was attracted to him - he came to my office, and when I asked him to shut the door, he asked if it was something dire."

"And that's when you told him about your feelings?"

"Well, when you say feelings..."

Mary's brow furrowed. "What exactly have you told him?"

"That I'm attracted to him, I told you."

"Ah. So he doesn't know you're in love, then."

John could feel his face flush. "I'm not in love!"

Mary just smirked at this. "Right."

"...Fuck."

"It's not like you're the only person to ever have fallen in love before."

"It doesn't even matter! In addition to it being completely unprofessional to act this way with a student, he's eighteen. He _just_ turned eighteen. I'm practically twice his age!"

"No, John, if you were lusting after sophomores in high school, you'd be twice his age and it would be illegal. As is, it's perfectly legal, and twelve years age difference, while a bit creepy at your age, has never stopped anyone in Hollywood, has it? I mean, look at Paul McCartney, or Harrison Ford; aren't they dating women forty years younger, or something patently ridiculous?"

John grinned at her. "Really? You're comparing me to Harrison Ford, now?"

Mary glared back at him. "That's not the point. The point is, John, that for the last five years you have been making excuses not to be in a relationship, and this just sounds like more of the same. Quite frankly, I'm worried about you. Give me one legitimate reason why you're here, moping with me, and not with him."

John gaped at her, open mouthed, before forcibly snapping his jaw shut. "I haven't been making excuses to avoid relationships."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Right. How many relationships have you been in since we broke it off? Hmm?"

John had the grace to look chagrined. "None," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I couldn't quite hear you."

"None!" John snapped.

"Right. And how many times have you gone on dates?"

"Twice," he responded tersely.

"And how many times have you had sex?"

John blushed. "Once."

"Oh! You never told me about that one."

"Yes, well, we were both drunk, and it wasn't like I was going to brag about it afterwards, seeing as how he had a girlfriend, and I had never been with a man before." John crossed his arms over his chest, feeling terribly embarrassed. He was glad that he and Mary were still friends, close enough for him to impose upon her for emotional support. But there was something so exposed about discussing your rather pitiful sex life with someone who had seen you naked.

"Look, you were the one who called me, and for some reason my enormously patient boyfriend agreed to let me spend the evening comforting my ex-fiancé, which frankly, I can't fathom."

"Tell Tom thanks, by the way. I owe him lunch. I owe both of you." John sighed heavily.

Mary reached over and squeezed his hand affectionately. "I'm not trying to make you miserable, John. I'm just trying to knock some sense into you. Why do you think you even fell for him in the first place? I mean... It just seems so unlike you. You'd never - you're his _teacher_, John."

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, maybe that's why. I mean... maybe I fell for him _because_ it was inappropriate?"

Mary stared at him curiously, but said nothing.

"I thought it was never going to happen, that nothing would ever develop between us, and so I finally felt safe enough to drop my guard and actually let him in. And by the time I'd realized what was happening, it was already too late."

Mary sighed, a little dramatically, in John's opinion. "So you let him in. You're a lost cause. I get it. But now you finally have the opportunity to pursue something with him, and instead of jumping at it, you're running to me!"

John started to protest, but Mary cut him off. "_John_! Don't you see what you're doing to yourself?"

John spent a few minutes picking at his shirt sleeve and watching Westley and Buttercup kiss and ride off into the sunset. As the credits started to roll, he spoke without meeting Mary's eyes. "So, what do you suggest I do now?"

"I don't know, John! Maybe - ask him out on a date? A proper date. And don't run away if he invites you back to his place. Better yet, invite him back to yours."

John sighed. "How did I get myself into this?"

"Probably the way most people do?" Mary stretched and slid off the couch gracefully, then walked over to the television and ejected her DVD. "I think it's about time for me to head back. And you," she shook a finger at him chidingly, "should text your student and let him know you're not a complete idiot, or at least, not a cowardly one."

John let out a weak chuckle and saw Mary out with promises of later lunches. He didn't know for certain when he'd see her again, but if things with Sherlock turned out poorly, it might be fairly soon.

He then set to work on composing a text message to Sherlock, and after twelve minutes and three aborted attempts, he closed his eyes and pressed send in spite of his misgivings.

**_Would you like to do it properly next time? JW_**

Even though it was almost eleven at night, the reply came less than a minute later.

**_Do what properly? -SH_**

**_A date. You know, without the denial this time. JW_**

**_So you figured it out, then? -SH_**

**_Guess I didn't think you went for old, out of shape professors. JW_**

**_You're not out of shape. You're still quite fit. Don't pretend you're unattractive. -SH_**

**_Does this mean you think I'm hot? JW_**

**_So. Date. Thursday at seven? -SH_**

**_Yes._**

John stared at the screen until it dimmed before setting it gently on the side table and leaning back against the sofa cushions. He let out a long breath as a grin spread across his face.


	8. Sibling Nodes

_**Author's Note**_

Happy Thanksgiving, my fellow Americans. :) I hope you are enjoying the festivities as much as I have been. In honor of this family holiday, enjoy a chapter dedicated to John's favorite sister.

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**Chapter 8: Sibling Nodes**_

"Hello, Harry. Haven't you had enough brotherly attention to last the year?" John shifted his cell phone to his shoulder while he used both hands to open the dryer.

"Of course not. You need to try harder than that to get rid of me. I have a quota to fill, you know." The faint sound of traffic indicated that Harry was walking home from work. She did have a tendency to call John when she was bored.

John pulled his clean clothes out of the dryer one-handed as he adjusted his phone. "Trying to get a free lunch out of me, eh? You know, just because I'm a doctor doesn't mean I'm rich."

"What? You're not rich? Who's going to pay for my retirement then?" Harry mock-complained, clearly enjoying herself.

"I guess you'll just have to marry into money."

Harry just snorted. "So what's put you in such a good mood? You even picked up on the first ring!"

"Wouldn't you like to know." John was grinning. "Well, since I know you won't leave me alone until I tell you, I'll just say that we can't have dinner on Thursday. I have _plans_."

"Plans? Wait, do you mean a _date_? Seriously? I thought you'd forgotten how!"

John grinned as he hoisted the laundry basket up on one hip. "Insults may not be the best strategy if you don't want me to hang up on you."

"Your silence will not deter me, Johnny! Tell me about her! I need details!"

John grimaced at the nickname. "Well in that case, _Harriet_, you will have to get used to disappointment." He figured he would tell her about Sherlock eventually, but he might as well take advantage of the fact that everyone assumed he was dating a woman.

"You're no fun. I just want to know what you're up to. Is she cute? Of course she is, you always get the cute ones."

John was feeling magnanimous, and it had been a while since his sister had any reason to pry into his love life. "Tell you what. We'll play twenty questions. You can ask any twenty yes or no questions and I'll answer truthfully."

"Where'd you meet her?" Harry sounded like she was practically vibrating with excitement.

"Sorry, that's not a yes or no question. You have nineteen left." Harry had never been very good at this game.

"What? No fair! That one doesn't count!" Harry whined from the other end. John smiled to himself and put her on speaker as he dumped the contents of his laundry basket on the bed. "Okay, fine. You're so literal, John. First question. Did you meet at school?"

"Yes. Eighteen left."

Harry sighed melodramatically, but pressed on. "Did you meet this year, or before?"

"Technically, that's not a yes or no question either, but I'll take pity on you. We met last August."

"Last August - so when you were starting your teaching job? Wait, no, that's not a question."

John smirked as he dug through his wardrobe looking for hangers. The faint rustle of fabric and the soft clack of the plastic hangers was strangely calming.

"Okay, let's see. Is she pretty?"

Ah. There was that pesky pronoun again. "Nope."

"What! How can you say that! And you better not be saying no because you'd call her 'gorgeous' or something dumb like that."

"I'm not. I would never describe my date as _pretty_."

"Well, what about smart?" Harry fished.

"Definitely."

"Mmmm. Sweet?"

"Definitely not."

"Sexy?" Harry's voice was a purr now.

"Oh yes," John responded in kind.

Harry sounded intrigued. "So, sexy, but not pretty or sweet. Smart. Doesn't sound like your typical girl."

John laughed. "You're right on that one."

"So how many questions is that so far?"

"Damn, I've lost count. Twelve left?" It was actually thirteen, but he was so used to toying with Harry that it was hard to break the habit.

"I think it was fourteen," she replied smoothly. "Do you have an outfit picked out yet?"

John frowned in confusion. "What? No. It's on Thursday, why would I have an outfit already?"

"Do you have anything without stains or holes? Something that fits you and doesn't make you look even older than you are?" Her voice was smug, and John could just picture her looking through his wardrobe and tutting at his sweater collection.

"I don't think this is really in the spirit of twenty questions," John protested. "Fine, no, I probably don't have anything up to snuff, at least in your overqualified opinion. In mine, I have a button up and a maroon sweater that'll do just fine."

"Oh, John, maroon? Really? You look terrible in maroon, it makes you look all blotchy. No, you should wear blue. It brings out your eyes. Do you have any blue shirts?"

He looked in his closet as he turned one of his shirts right-side out, just to make sure. "No. I think you have nine questions left."

Harry paused, apparently deciding to drop it for now. "Is she younger than you?"

John hesitated. He might as well have out with it. "By twelve years."

"_What_?" Harry gasped. "How old is she, eighteen? My God, John, I didn't think you had it in you."

"Yes, eighteen. Yes, I realize it's entirely inappropriate and yet, somehow, I've stopped giving a damn." John sounded braver than he felt.

Harry whistled. "Good for you, John!" She paused, realization dawning. "_Oh_… Is she one of your students?"

He hesitated before responding. "Yes."

"And here I was, asking about your freshman girls, and you said there weren't any cute ones-"

He sighed. "What I said was accurate."

"If you say so," Harry snorted. "Okay, you say I have six questions, though I think I have more than that. Will you answer me truthfully if I ask you a non yes-or-no question instead of the remaining ones?"

John pursed his lips, uncertain. Harry was bound to go back to her regular tactics eventually. He revised his earlier plan - better to get it over with. "Yes. Fine. One question."

"What are you hiding from me? Because you've been really shifty this whole conversation and not in the normal trying-to-piss-off-Harry way."

"I'm not going out with a freshman girl."

"You're not? But you said she was eighteen-"

"No, Harry, I never said _she_ was eighteen."

"Yes, you did! I specifically remember you saying 'eighteen'!"

"_He's_ eighteen."

"Wait."

"Yep."

"You-"

"He was in my intro to programming course, he's taking my projects course this semester, he's definitely not 'pretty,' or 'sweet,' and I think he'd find it hilarious to be described as either."

He wasn't sure if Harry was still on the line, at first. The phone was silent for so long he thought maybe she'd hung up and he hadn't noticed. Then she cursed softly, her voice shocked into breathlessness.

After a moment she recovered enough to return to her normal nagging tone. "You've been holding out on me! Why didn't you tell me you were gay?"

"Because I'm not?"

"You're going on a date with a man!"

"Last time I checked, gay men don't enjoy having sex with women nearly as much as I do." Then again, straight men didn't think about having sex with men as much as John did, either, but who was he to judge.

"What, then, you're bi? How do you know?"

"God, Harry, do you even listen to yourself?"

"It's a legitimate question."

"Well, I sort of... Do you remember when Mary and I broke up, and I went drinking with Bill, and then we, well, stopped talking?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

John fidgeted nervously with his socks. "Well, we sort of, uh." Oh, God. Why was he talking about this with Harry, of all people? "We were both really drunk."

"You had sex?!"

_Blunt as always, Harry. Thanks._ "I certainly wasn't going to _tell_ you about it, was I?"

"I can't believe you!" She sounded infuriated.

"Really, Harry, don't get so excited. I've only done it with a man the one time, and like I said, I was pretty drunk. I mean, you've had sex with a man before, haven't you?"

Suddenly Harry was almost as tentative as John had been. "Yes, but that was different. That was before I - realized."

"Well, this is the first time I've ever been on a date with a man, okay? It doesn't mean I'm gay, but I don't think I'm straight, and I don't think I've ever been, whether I knew it or not. Does it even matter?"

Harry sighed. "No, it doesn't matter. Idiot. I'm just sad that I've felt like the freak all this time, and you never said anything."

"God, you're not a freak, Harry. I'm sorry. I didn't know it would mean that much to you." John paused in the middle of sorting his pile of clean underwear, guilt twisting in his stomach.

"It's fine," she said, in a way that meant it wasn't fine at all, but that she didn't want to talk about it. "Look, I was serious about your outfit. You never have anything flattering to wear. I want to take you clothes shopping."

John waved his socks about in frustration. "Oh, no, I'm not making that mistake again. I'm not made of money, you know, and I like the sweater and jeans look just fine, thanks. I don't want to look like someone I'm not. He wouldn't have said yes if he didn't like me the way I am."

"_Said yes_? Wait, _you_ asked _him_ out? Wow. That's- how long has it been?"

John subconsciously rubbed at his temple with one hand. He was starting to get a headache. "Yes, yes, I've heard this before, thanks. No need to rub it in."

Harry giggled before composing herself. "I just want to make sure you look your best. We can go to Savers, they have tons of cheap stuff, it's just a matter of finding it," she argued. "Besides, how often do I get to do my little brother a favor?"

She was wheedling now. If John wasn't careful, she'd revert to blackmail. Baby pictures posted on Facebook, most likely. "Fine, I'll go with you. The date's on Thursday."

Harry chortled with glee. John could picture her rubbing her hands together deviously. "Tomorrow night, I'll take you clothes shopping. We can grab dinner at that pub near the Savers."

"Tomorrow's fine, but can we not go to a pub?"

"I'm not drinking right now, I swear. Just soda for me. They have good burgers though."

John had heard _that_ one before. "Alright. When do you get off work?"

"I get off at four tomorrow; I can meet you on campus at five, okay?"

"Sure. See you at five. Call me when you get there."

"See you tomorrow, little brother."

.x.x.x.x.x.

On Monday, Sherlock was as calm as ever, and packed up his bag and left as soon as Greg dismissed the class. John felt a pang about missing his chance to talk to him, but reasoned that Sherlock wasn't going to act differently just because John had finally gotten the hint.

Apparently his disappointment showed. Greg pulled him aside after the rest of the students had filtered out, concern on his face. "Look, did something happen?"

John blinked in confusion. "Define _happen_."

"Normally you're completely professional, but today you were, uh, staring. A bit."

John swore under his breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't even notice. Damn. It won't happen again."

"It's not a big deal, and it probably wasn't obvious except to me and a couple students who were paying extra attention. Sherlock, for one." He raised an eyebrow. "Is everything okay?"

"We went on a date. Sort of. And we're going on another."

Greg's expression cleared. "Oh! That's great! I guess - I was worried, that's all. I've never seen you so distracted."

"Yes, well, it's been - a while - since I was in a relationship. Oh! Not that this is! I mean. Not yet." John's face was hot, and he was sure he was blushing madly.

Greg laughed good-naturedly and clapped John on the shoulder. "Sounds like you could use a beer or two. Interested in heading to Harpo's tonight?"

"I can't. My sister's somehow roped me into going clothes shopping. She's convinced my wardrobe is ill-equipped for date attire."

Greg grinned. "Afraid I have to agree with her. That jacket is _completely_ hideous." He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, struggling to keep a straight face.

John chuckled, protesting, "Hey! I like this jacket!" He touched the sleeve tentatively, as if trying to reassure his clothing that someone, at least, valued it. "Mary bought it for me."

"Well, Mary has terrible taste in clothing, apparently. Hopefully your sister will have better luck."

"Gee, thanks," he uttered sarcastically, but he couldn't keep up a glare in the face of Greg's teasing.

Greg grinned to match John. "Have fun playing dress up. I'll see you on Wednesday."

"Yep, see you Wednesday."

.x.x.x.x.x.

Harry was running late, as always, so John was sitting in the engineering lobby idly reading news stories on his laptop, when someone slid into the booth across from him.

Sherlock blinked at him over the table. "You're here late."

"Oh! Hi. Yeah, I'm meeting up with Harry. What are you doing here?"

"I'm always here at this time. I have a class at four and I usually work on my homework in the lobby afterward."

"So you just decided to say hi?"

Sherlock just smiled.

John suddenly recalled Greg's comment from earlier about staring and felt his face flush with embarrassment. "Erm. Sorry about earlier today."

"During class? Yes, it was a bit obvious, don't you think?"

John ducked his head. "Well, no, actually. I didn't think it was obvious at all. I didn't even notice I was doing it."

"And yet you're apologizing for it."

John glanced back up at Sherlock. "Greg told me that I was staring."

Sherlock's eyes were filled with quiet amusement. "You were."

"So, sorry."

"I didn't mind."

"Well, you didn't stick around, either." John was starting to get very uncomfortable under Sherlock's scrutiny.

"I have class right after, you know that." Sherlock frowned. "You weren't bothered, were you?"

"No! No." John grimaced. Why did talking to Sherlock make him feel like a stupid teenager? This was ridiculous. He was a grown man and perfectly capable of dealing with his emotions. "It's fine. It's all - fine."

Sherlock relaxed a bit and reclined against the booth. "So you're willingly spending time with your sister, then?"

"Yeah, well, I was in a good mood when she called."

"And you still are, apparently."

"Well, I have good reason to be."

"Is that so? And what good reason is that?"

John smiled and leaned towards Sherlock conspiratorially. "I have a date on Thursday, I'll have you know."

"Really? Oh, I'm sure your date will be an awful bore."

Fishing for compliments, was he? Well, John was game. "Nope. He's fascinating. Smartest man I've ever met."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled up. He was clearly enjoying himself. "Surely you've met smarter."

John pulled back and tried to look thoughtful as he considered. "Well... his brother could give him a run for his money," he teased, knowing it was a sore spot for Sherlock.

At this Sherlock glared.

John fought the urge to giggle. "But he's much sexier than his brother," he relented.

"Is he, now?" Sherlock purred, one eyebrow lifted suggestively.

John smirked and was coming up with a response when his phone buzzed. Damn. "Sorry, looks like Harry's finally bothered to show up." He picked up the phone, annoyed. "Are you here yet?"

"Yeah, I'm in the parking lot." Her voice echoed off the cement walls of the parking structure.

John rolled his eyes. Harry would be able to tell even if she couldn't see it. "Come to the engineering lobby, I'm talking with someone."

"Why can't you come meet me?" she complained. "Fine, fine, I'll be there in a minute."

"Bye." John didn't wait for a response before hanging up the phone.

Sherlock spoke up, a hint of a smile lingering at the edges of his mouth. "Shame. She's gone and ruined your good mood."

"Well, it's a good thing you're here, then. Maybe I should come to the engineering lobby more often." Was he flirting? He was definitely flirting. John smiled as he realized that it was not only allowed, but encouraged.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "You spend enough time on campus. You should go home after work, relax. Watch telly and whatnot. Drink tea." He eyed John, appraising. "Do laundry."

"Hey, I like doing laundry. My clothes may not be as nice as yours, but at least they're clean."

Sherlock smiled and turned his attention to his shoulder bag as he pulled out his biology textbook, notebook, and laptop computer. He set up his computer in silence as John started putting away his own. John was just wrapping up his power cord when Harry stalked right past their booth. "Hey! Over here!"

She looked around for them cluelessly, and John started to giggle as Sherlock smirked.

"Oh! There you are. Who's this, then?" Harry beamed at John before turning to stare curiously at Sherlock.

"This is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is my sister Harry."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock!" She stuck out her hand, smiling.

Sherlock frowned. "You've been drinking."

Harry dropped her hand in shock. "Excuse me?"

John sighed. "Really, Sherlock?"

"What? I - what - how did you-" Harry was clearly caught off guard.

"Never mind him. He always does that. See you tomorrow, Sherlock. Um, that is-" Maybe he shouldn't assume Sherlock would still want to come to his office hours.

"Yes, see you tomorrow. Have fun going shopping. Get something in blue."

John sighed. Of course he would know what he was doing tonight without being told. "Alright, Harry, let's go." He guided his still-gaping sister away from the table and down the stairs towards the parking lot. They were halfway through the courtyard before she regained her ability to speak. "Who the hell was that?"

"Don't be such a jerk." He was more tired than angry, but the words came out a bit harsh anyway.

"Seriously? You told him about my drinking?"

"I didn't have to, Harry, and I thought you said you'd quit!" John snapped.

"I _have_," she pleaded, not entirely convincingly.

"No, you haven't, or Sherlock wouldn't have said what he did. Apparently you've already had something earlier today." As hard as it was for John to hide things from Harry, it went both ways. She was definitely uncomfortable.

"Alright, I had one beer after work. It's not going to kill me!"

John crossed his arms over his chest and stonily marched at her side, refusing to look at her. Surely she didn't believe the crap that came out of her own mouth?

"I'm sorry, John! Stop that. I just wanted to have fun with you tonight, okay? Just loosen up. I won't have any more. We'll grab dinner and go buy clothes. It'll be great. You'll see."

John didn't respond, but his expression did soften, and by the time they'd gotten to her car he was smiling as she described the antics of her co-workers.

"And when I got back, Kevin was working the women's underwear section, and he looked absolutely miserable! He was so happy to see me that he just thrust a pile of panties in my arms and bolted for the checkout counter!"

.x.x.x.x.x.

Harry babbled all the way to the Southern Sun, even as John stole her car keys ("I'm not letting you drive when you've been drinking!" "I wasn't planning to!" "Then why didn't you let me have the keys?" "Well, I couldn't just _give_ them to you."). She paused her chatter briefly to look at the menu, picking up again as they waited for appetizers, and then stopping only long enough to cram chili cheese fries in her mouth. John just smiled and watched in amusement.

When their burgers arrived, John enjoyed a few minutes of blissful silence before his sister started back up again.

"Say, John - whatever happened to that student of yours? The one that had a crush on you?"

John fidgeted nervously with his lemonade.

"Um, yeah, about that..."

Harry just waited expectantly, a look of curiosity on her face.

"Well, turns out I had a bit of a crush on him, too."

"What?! Wait, is he your date?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. I guess I should have seen that coming."

"Yeah." John was grinning madly at this point.

Harry sighed and set down her burger. "John... you're an idiot."

"I know."

Harry laughed at this. "Well, I'll have to meet him sometime."

John admitted, a bit nervously, "You already have."

"What? I haven't met any of your students."

"You've met one."

"...No." The look of shock on Harry's face would have been amusing if John weren't so embarrassed.

"Well..."

"That guy sitting with you today? Seriously? He's a prick!"

"He said three words to you, Harry; I don't think you're qualified to judge." John paused. "But yeah, a bit." _And somehow, I like him anyway._ He smiled ruefully.

Harry snorted. "Well, at least he's cute."

John grinned cheekily. "Didn't think he was your type."

"He's pretty girly-looking."

"Hey!"

"I tell it like it is!" Harry proclaimed, beaming.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Trying on clothes with Harry was about as fun as John had expected it to be. He mostly stood there bewildered as Harry thrust piles of shirts into his arms, then let himself be shepherded to the dressing rooms. Every time he tried on a shirt, Harry would insist that he come out and show it to her, until finally he got tired and dragged her into the room with him. She'd already seen him shirtless countless times in childhood, and she'd seen the bullet wound when it was still healing, so he didn't imagine she'd be squeamish about it now.

Even without having to come out of the room every time he tried on a new shirt, John still spent what felt like hours changing into various button-downs, polos, and even a few t-shirts.

"I love New York? Really, Harry?"

"It's a nice cut! It looks good on you."

"Regardless, I've never been to New York, and I certainly don't _heart_ it."

"Fine, try the next one then."

The rejection pile grew steadily larger, and every time John thought he saw the end in sight, Harry would trundle out the current load of rejects and replace it with new ones to try.

Finally, they settled on three button-down shirts in neutral colors (light blue, beige, and black), a dark blue polo shirt that he could wear to work, and a distressed t-shirt that clung to his chest in a way that made John feel uncomfortable, but Harry insisted was flattering.

"You should wear that for your student. I bet he'd enjoy taking it off you," she winked garishly.

John just groaned.

Next came the sweaters. Harry rejected most of John's favorites off-hand, but she did find a handful for him to try. He ended up with a wonderfully soft cashmere sweater in what Harry called "a gorgeous shade of blue." He'd also liked a cable knit blue-green sweater that Harry had tacitly approved, making several snide comments that his taste was improving.

"Wear the sapphire one on your date," she insisted, gesturing to the first sweater John had picked when she saw his look of confusion. "With that oatmeal button down underneath."

John sighed in relief, as they'd found what they were looking for, before Harry stopped him with a frown. "Pants!"

"But Harry, it's almost eight. I'm tired."

"Oh, quit your whining. I'll find you some nice slacks that will go with your outfit. While I'm thinking about it, go over to the shoe section and find a pair that fit and don't look like sneakers."

John sighed and trudged obediently over to the shoe section. He found a decent pair of loafers that were actually comfortable and showed them off to Harry with pride.

"Ugh. I guess they'll have to do. Try these on."

After another hour of trying on different trousers (and he did not let his sister into the dressing room with him this time) he finally ended up with a light brown and a navy blue pair.

"Can we go home now?"

"Let me just see you in your outfit, okay? Oatmeal shirt, blue sweater, navy pants, and your new shoes. I want to see how it'll look."

John grumpily acquiesced, and as he finished putting on his shoes, finally caught sight of his reflection in the dressing room mirror.

He looked good.

John ignored the surprised expression of his reflection and turned around to inspect his posterior. Excellent. His mirror-self looked pleased.

"You done yet?" Harry whined, obviously bored.

He pushed open the door wordlessly, still looking at himself from various angles. He heard his sister let out a whistle. "You clean up nice, Johnny!"

The outfit was undeniably flattering, and brought out the sandy highlights of his hair and the blue of his eyes. He turned to inspect his profile. Not bad. He may no longer be active military, but at least he biked often enough to keep most of his muscle tone.

"Fine, you win. I look good in this."

"Told ya." Harry was grinning broadly. "Now change back into your ugly clothes and we'll check out."


	9. Preconditioning

_**Chapter 9: Preconditioning**_

"Have you given any thought to the group project yet?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Can't I just do something independently?"

John sighed. They'd had this argument before. "No, Sherlock, for the tenth time, it's a group projects class. The whole point is to get experience working in a group..." Sherlock was scowling now. "Look, you have to at least _try_ to work with someone. I know you're one of the smartest people in the class, but sometimes you have to learn to work with people who aren't at your level. I mean, you put up with me, don't you?" John joked.

Sherlock waved one hand dismissively. "You're different, John."

John felt his cheeks grow hot. "Um. I... Thank you."

"Besides, I don't have to listen to you. These group projects are led by the graduate students, aren't they?"

"What do you mean, you don't have to listen - I'm your teacher, Sherlock!"

Sherlock ignored him. "I don't want some idiotic first year graduate student telling me I'm not working hard enough or looking down on me just because I'm a freshman."

John tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. "They're not all going to do that. What about Jim? He's smart. Probably as smart as you."

Sherlock pursed his lips in a pout. "I suppose," he admitted petulantly.

John sighed at Sherlock's stubbornness. "Just - make an effort, will you? If it's just not working, you can discuss it further with Greg. Okay?"

"Fine."

Sherlock was still pouting when twelve o'clock rolled around, and John shooed him out of the office. He didn't return after lunch, and John began to wonder if he should apologize. _No._ He dismissed the thought, giving himself a mental shake. This was ridiculous. Sherlock would have to get over himself. John just hoped it wouldn't ruin their plans for Thursday.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Jim casually slid into the empty desk next to Sherlock as he settled in before class on Wednesday. "So, do you have a group for the project portion of the class?"

Sherlock felt vaguely guilty as he remembered his argument with John the previous day. He raised a single eyebrow at Jim. "No. Do I look like the type to get along with... people?"

"I suppose not." Jim grinned, showing a full mouth of white teeth. Sherlock felt a bit dazzled.

"Are you suggesting something, Jim?"

Jim's smile widened. "Perhaps. We could use another programmer. Especially one with a biochemistry background. I know you're the youngest one here - but you're still smarter than all of them combined, Sherlock." He waved his hand dismissively at the classroom.

Sherlock felt his face flush at the compliment.

"We're exploring Bayesian networks as a means to model brain pathways. Neuroscience, artificial intelligence, that sort of thing. I did a lot of preparatory cognitive neuroscience stuff in undergrad. It's fascinating." Jim's eyes glittered. "I'm getting my PhD in artificial intelligence as it relates to cognitive science research. You'll love it, I'm sure."

Sherlock smiled, and he knew instantly that Jim was right. Sherlock would love it, the same way Jim loved it.

"We're meeting as a group on Thursday afternoon. It's you, me, Irene, and Sebastian."

Sherlock parsed through the list of classmates and recognized Irene and Sebastian as the couple he'd noticed the first day. Sebastian, in particular, hadn't struck him as the brainy type. "Sebastian?" he asked doubtfully.

"He's... dependable." Jim shrugged. "A solid coder. And you'll like Irene."

"Tomorrow, then. Where and when?"

"We meet in the CSEL - the lab for computer science students, back in the southwest corner. 2pm."

"I'll be there."

Jim smiled triumphantly and retreated to his usual seat at the back of the classroom. Sherlock didn't dwell on their conversation for long, though. John was setting up his laptop and stealing the occasional glance at Sherlock. His terrible attempts at being furtive were laughable, but endearing. And he was wearing new trousers that fit very nicely.

.x.x.x.x.x.

On Wednesday evening, the night before The Date, John made enchiladas.

John carefully rolled the last tortilla, placed it in the baking dish, and poured the remnants of the saucepan on top. He loved this recipe. When he was younger, his mother had made enchiladas often, and he'd always helped her in the kitchen, stirring the sauce or sprinkling cheese over the top.

John couldn't remember the last time he'd been this nervous for a date. Then again, he could barely remember the last time he'd _had_ a date.

He was slightly shocked to notice that it was Wednesday already. Thanks to Harry, the beginning of the week had passed quickly, but Tuesday had dragged, especially after his minor quibble with Sherlock. And today, he'd been able to think of nothing but tomorrow's date, to the point of distraction. Assembling the enchiladas was at least helping to calm his frazzled nerves.

Hopefully Sherlock would like John's cooking; if not, at least John would be set for lunches for a while.

John glanced at the pile of DVDs he'd set out - Goldfinger, From Russia With Love, Golden Eye, and Casino Royale. A few weeks ago, when making yet another reference Sherlock didn't understand, it became clear that the younger man had never seen Bond before, and it seemed like a decent choice for a date movie.

_Date._ John was still getting used to the concept. This was a true and proper date.

He obsessively checked the bedroom. His outfit was folded neatly on the dresser. He'd decided to change after work - if he came to office hours wearing it, Sherlock wouldn't be surprised. Not that he would be surprised anyway. Sherlock had an uncanny ability to predict John's actions.

And since they were staying in, there was always the chance that Sherlock would see his bedroom...

John froze in temporary panic at the thought. Okay. Apparently John was not ready for that train of thought yet. It was good to know that _before _the date.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was having his own train of thought.

At noon on Thursday, when he would normally leave John's office, Sherlock walked over to the open door, shut it, and locked it. At first, John didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, and Sherlock was amused to see him start to pull out his lunch, not realizing that Sherlock was still in the room.

"I've been thinking about doing this all week," Sherlock stated simply, as he crossed the room in long strides. John swivelled in his chair as Sherlock leant down and captured John's lips with his own.

The kiss was chaste at first, a simple press of dry lips, but then John sighed and his tongue darted out to lick at Sherlock's upper lip. Sherlock shuddered at the touch and flicked his own tongue out to reciprocate.

Sherlock marvelled at the sensation. Kissing Victor had never felt like this. Victor was sloppy and moist and used too much tongue and often tasted of breath mints. John, on the other hand... John was warm and soft and slick and tasted of Earl Grey tea and vanilla, of the slightly bitter tang of the hydrogen peroxide he used in place of aftershave, and of a warm almost-cinnamon that Sherlock was convinced must just be John. John's stubble scratched lightly against Sherlock's cheek, and his lips were slightly chapped, and, for some reason, Sherlock thought it was infinitely more perfect than Victor's baby smooth skin had ever been. Shudders were running down Sherlock's spine, warmth pooled in his belly, and optimal blood flow was certainly not getting to his brain, but Sherlock no longer cared.

Kissing John was electric. It was ice and fire and sparks of light and...

John groaned and pulled away. "What was that for?"

Sherlock took a second to catch his breath before he spoke. "I assumed it would be obvious."

"Humor me."

"I... wanted to?"

John flashed a bemused smile at Sherlock. "Good. Just making sure this isn't another one of your weird experiments."

"No, it's not. At least, not in the way you're thinking."

John waited a beat before asking, "So, are we going to do it again, or should I just eat my sandwich?"

_Oh._ Sherlock leaned down and happily recaptured John's mouth.

.x.x.x.x.x.

At ten minutes to two, Sherlock was packing up to leave when John stopped him.

"So. Um. About tonight - did you want to meet on campus, or should I pick you up at your dorm?"

"At my dorm. You're planning something, then."

John nodded, suddenly thrumming with nerves.

Sherlock swung his laptop bag over his shoulder and smiled oddly, one corner of his mouth twitched upward, in the expression that John always found so sensual. "I look forward to it. See you at seven, John."

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock didn't have official access to the CSEL, not yet being a computer science major, but he managed to charm a graduate student into letting him in anyway. Jim and Irene, the tall, curvaceous brunette from his biocomputing class, were seated in the corner on a pair of pink couches like the ones in John's office. Sherlock strolled over and flopped down on the sofa next to Jim.

"Hey, Sherlock." Jim smiled. "This is Irene. Seb's running a few minutes late."

"Ooh, I see what you mean, James." Irene smiled wickedly at Sherlock. "So is your coding as good as your-"

"Irene," Jim chided softly.

"What?" Irene batted her lashes innocently.

Jim spent the next few minutes chatting with Irene in low tones, while Sherlock gazed at the other students in the lab and amused himself deducing their secrets.

When Sebastian came in the room, a stern frown gracing his tanned face, black eyebrows beetling together, Sherlock realized with shock that he'd misjudged him. He hadn't registered for the class because of _Irene_. He wasn't even dating Irene. The withering glare he sent Sherlock's way when he saw how close he was sitting to Jim revealed more than anything Sherlock had ever observed in class.

Irene pouted her lips in a moue when Sebastian settled next to her. "Feeling down, are you, Seb? This is Sherlock."

"Yes. I've heard… so much… about you," Sebastian growled, barely concealed glare directed at Jim. His gaze only briefly swept over Sherlock before settling on his laptop.

"Well, shall we get started, then?" Jim interrupted.

"Yes, let's." Sherlock's voice sounded more confident than he felt. Irene, at least, looked impressed.

Jim spent the next half hour going over the proposed project and delineating what code each person would be responsible for. Sherlock was to read up on Bayesian networks first, since he was the only one who hadn't taken Donovan's intro AI class. Jim promised to send him links to a few useful tutorials via email and also handed off his old AI textbook for Sherlock to borrow. Then they started chatting about other random topics - Irene was quite the gossip, it seemed, and had dirt on various upperclassmen in the department, as well as a few of the teachers.

"You _do_ know how Professor Lestrade got to be department chair, don't you?" she mock-whispered, eyes wide and full of humour.

_Yeah, Mycroft badgered him into it._

"I heard he was sleeping with Mycroft Hol-" She stopped mid-sentence, smile disappearing as she remembered who was in the seat across from her.

Sherlock snorted. "As if anyone _wants_ to be department chair. You'd have to sleep with Mycroft to get _out_ of it." He shuddered. "And please refrain from any further mentions of my brother. Thinking about him is irritating enough, without having to speculate on his sex life."

Irene laughed at this and visibly relaxed.

"And I've heard that John Watson is sleeping with a student…"

Sherlock forced himself not to react. "Oh?"

"Hey, now. Watch what you say about Dr. Watson. Sherlock's friends with him. Aren't you, Sherlock?" Jim was smiling at Sherlock, but there was an odd twist to his lips.

Sherlock just nodded, cautiously.

Irene smiled, but there was a sharp edge to it. "Well, they're only rumors, right now, but… I heard it was an underage student. Could go to jail over that."

Jim opened his eyes and mouth wide in mock surprise. "Oh dear. _Come on_, Irene, he's too much of a goody two shoes. Unless you can think of anyone he'd sleep with, Sherlock..." he was glancing sidelong at Sherlock now, a smile hovering on his lips.

Sherlock blinked lazily. "Well, there is Jeanette, I suppose. But I doubt she'd go for him. I mean, really, who would?"

Irene laughed. "Oh, I've heard from plenty of," here she paused almost imperceptibly, and her gaze swept over Sherlock, "...girls who would like to see what's in his pants."

Sherlock grit his teeth as he fought his blush. What did she think she was playing at? "I hadn't heard that."

"Well, you haven't been paying attention, then."

Oh, Sherlock had certainly been paying attention.

"Perhaps I don't put as much stock in rumours as you do," Sherlock snapped. He glanced at his watch. 15:17. One of his experiments needed checking on, and he had to get ready for his… date. His stomach flitted pleasantly at the thought. He realized he was smiling when Jim gave him an amused look.

"I should go. I'll check out the links you send, Jim. Thanks." He nodded stiffly to Irene and Sebastian, the latter of whom was still glaring at him, and gathered up his laptop.

"Oh, just ignore Irene, she doesn't know what she's talking about," Jim said jovially as Irene let out a huff of irritation. Jim's lilting voice trailed after Sherlock as he pushed open the lab door. "See you tomorrow, Sherlock."

.x.x.x.x.x.

At 6:53, John was stamping his feet outside the Williams Village dorms, trying to look casual, and ignoring the stares from passing students. Even in Colorado, where the weather was so unpredictable as to give meteorologists nightmares, February was occasionally cold. Today had been downright chilly, and now that the sun had gone down over the mountains, John was sincerely regretting leaving his gloves at home.

_**You're early. Come inside. You look cold. -SH**_

_**I can't come in. I don't have a key card. JW**_

_**30 seconds. -SH**_

_**What? JW**_

John had just pressed send when a group of giggling girls exited the building. A pretty blonde caught John's eye, and blushing furiously, held open the door for him. He favored her with a smile and a sincere thank you.

**_I've still got it. :) JW_**

**_Would you prefer to go home with the blonde? -SH_**

**_There's this brunet I've had my eye on. You wouldn't happen to know his room number? JW_**

**_721. -SH_**

As John made his way to the elevator, he couldn't help grinning. He nodded politely to the young man with a Mohawk who stormed out of the elevator, looking at John like he was some kind of alien.

When he finally arrived at room 721, he hesitated. It occurred to him that Sherlock could have given him the wrong room number. And would Sherlock agree to go along with John's planned date? What if Sherlock wanted to go out somewhere? Would he even want to watch Bond?

What was John doing, trying to date an eighteen-year-old?

The door swung open and revealed Sherlock fussing with his shirt collar. John hesitated, and Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Are you coming in, or are you just going to stand there all night?"

Sherlock's room was, frankly, terrifying. Every conceivable surface was covered with papers, text books, chemistry equipment, and questionable-looking organic specimens (ranging from apple cores to what John sincerely hoped were not human fingers). John eyed the microwave and mini fridge with suspicion. He could see a jar sitting in the microwave. Wait, were those _eyeballs_?

"Um. Nice place you got here."

Sherlock merely smirked.

"Come here a minute. Hold this." He pressed a pair of bronze cuff links into John's palm before adjusting his sleeves.

John hadn't seen this suit before - it was a three-piece suit, more formal than what Sherlock normally wore. He told Sherlock as much.

"Ah yes, do you like it? I owe Mycroft a favour now, but I think I look rather sharp in it. Hopefully he won't make me sit in on another exam. They're dreadful."

John furrowed his eyebrows. He knew that Mycroft was Associate Dean or something, and that he provided Sherlock with, well, everything, but Sherlock had never mentioned doing things for Mycroft in return.

Sherlock smirked at John's look of puzzlement. "I help him enforce the honour code. When he has teachers who suspect that students are cheating, I go and pose as a student, determine who is cheating and how, and return the evidence to the honour committee." He made an offhand gesture to the fridge. "In return, he has a... deal with the biology department, and I get any samples they're done with. Mostly animal remains, but occasionally I'll get human extremities." Sherlock looked inordinately pleased at this, and John made a mental note never to open Sherlock's fridge.

Having fastened his cuff-links, Sherlock was now standing in front of the mirror teasing his hair into some semblance of order.

John shuffled uncomfortably. "I feel so under-dressed."

"Nonsense." Sherlock paused in his grooming and gave John a slow look up and down, apparently enjoying the view. "Your new outfit is..." his voice seemed slightly husky. "Flattering."

John's heart leapt in his chest, and other parts seemed to stir as well. Whoa, boy. _Down._ "I think this is the nicest outfit I own. You - I mean, how many suits do you have?"

"Not that many. Only six. I go to the dry cleaners once every two weeks. Did you want to see?" Sherlock asked, his eyes lighting up.

John really didn't understand Sherlock's obsession with clothing. He was worse than Harry.

Without waiting for John's response, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him over to a large wardrobe, which he opened to reveal six pristine suits, hanging in clear plastic protective garment bags. There were also seven or eight t-shirts and three pairs of designer jeans. Unlike the rest of the room, the closet was clean and impeccably organized.

John looked down at his hand, fingers entwined with Sherlock's, and broke into a giddy grin. A thought occurred to him that made his smile falter.

"Sherlock, I-" Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "I'm not entirely comfortable with being seen... doing things... with you. In public. This, here, it's nice, it's fantastic even, but I don't want- I'm still your teacher, and I'm still twelve years older than you, and..." He trailed off awkwardly.

Sherlock looked confused. "There's nothing wrong with this. I'm of legal age, and you don't grade my assignments. Other people date their students. I don't see why you would want to hide it."

"Yes, I know that, and that's the only reason why this," he gestured between them, "is even okay. But it will make some people uncomfortable, especially since we're both men. So I just want to let you know that I'm fine with spending time with you, and dating, but if we're in public, then I'd like to be discreet."

Sherlock pouted. "And what, pray tell, do you consider discreet?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow in challenge.

"Well, no kissing, obviously."

"Dull."

John smiled crookedly. "And you can't drape yourself all over me or anything."

"I don't do that! When have I ever done that?" Sherlock complained. "Now you're just being unreasonable."

John rolled his eyes. "Right, 'cause I don't know anyone like that."

Sherlock sniggered.

John steeled himself. Time for the hard sell. "On the other hand, being in private is an entirely different matter." He used his best bedroom voice, and from Sherlock's sharp intake of breath, it looked like it was working.

"Oh, it is, is it?" Sherlock murmured, as his smile turned wicked.

_Concentrate, Watson._ "And that's... one of the reasons I wanted to take you to my place tonight, instead of going somewhere. I know you're all dressed up for the occasion, but-"

Sherlock interrupted John with a brief kiss. When he pulled back, he smiled and said, "Not for the occasion. For you."

John blushed and ducked his head, grinning like an idiot. "Well, are you ready to go?"

Sherlock carefully unwound his fingers from John's. "Now I am," he replied, lips quirking upwards in amusement.


	10. Datetime

**_Chapter 10: Datetime_**

As John was turning his key in the lock to his apartment door, the strangeness of the situation caught up to him. He was on a date with Sherlock. He was inviting Sherlock into his home. He might actually touch someone, and let someone touch him, for the first time in years. The thought of the kisses from earlier that afternoon made John's ears flush pink, and his hand tremble as he tried to get the door unlocked.

"Having trouble?" Sherlock asked, smirk on his face.

"What? No, I'm fine. Better than fine, actually." He finally got the key to turn, and he opened the door, motioning Sherlock inside. "Um, yeah. So. My apartment. You might notice it's a lot cleaner than yours."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but stepped inside, curious gaze darting around the living room. John closed the door behind him, tossed his keys in the dish on the entryway table, and toed his shoes off and into the closet. Sherlock shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it to John, who carefully hung it up in the closet.

"Make yourself at home." John gestured to the couch in the living room as he strode towards the kitchen. "I made enchiladas. I just need to put them in the oven."

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow, but his lips quirked in a brief smile.

"It was that or shepherd's pie - and I figured you'd never forgive me if I butchered English cuisine. I bet your mother would put me to shame."

Sherlock's lips twisted in amusement. "It's not as if her shepherd's pie is more authentic. She grew up in the United States, after all. That's why we moved here in the first place."

"Right. I knew that." John ducked his head in embarrassment as he slid the baking dish out of the fridge and onto the kitchen counter. John puttered about the kitchen: sprinkling the enchiladas with extra cheese; covering the dish with tin foil; turning the oven on.

"Enchiladas are good," Sherlock said suddenly. "I know of a Mexican restaurant in east Boulder that has excellent chicken enchiladas. Their green chili is also quite nice."

"Efrain's?" John looked over at Sherlock, who simply nodded. "I love that place."

"I suppose we could go there some time. Together. If you'd be amenable."

John caught Sherlock's eye from across the kitchen counter, and saw that he was biting his lip absently.

"I'd love to." The brilliant smile he received in return made John's chest ache. "I hope you like them." John waved vaguely at the oven. "This recipe is what got me through grad school."

Sherlock didn't respond. He appeared to be too busy cataloging the contents of John's apartment. John watched as he meandered through the living room, peering curiously inside the cracked wooden box on the mantle that held John's medals; sweeping a finger across the television stand and staring at the lack of grime suspiciously (John had just dusted); opening the coffee table and pawing through John's DVD collection. Right now he was squatting by the bookshelf that held John's old textbooks, occasionally trailing a slim finger along the spines.

"I kept most of my textbooks from undergrad. I left them with Mary while I was deployed."

Sherlock just hummed absently in response.

John cleared his throat. "Well... uh... should we start the movie, then?" John tugged nervously at his sweater and flashed Sherlock a smile.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock was lying against John's chest, legs spread out on the sofa cushions. It was making it very difficult for John to pay attention to the movie. Sherlock seemed fascinated, though. He chattered almost constantly about factual inaccuracies and the absurdity of the plot.

"This scene is entirely implausible. Why would the villain tell a roomful of people his dastardly plan in excruciating detail, only to kill them? Remind me why we're watching this film, again."

"It's a classic."

They had started out side by side on the couch. When John had shyly reached his arm behind Sherlock and lightly touched his shoulder, Sherlock had snorted. "If you're going to resort to such transparent attempts at establishing physical contact, we may as well skip this nonsense, and just make ourselves comfortable."

At this, Sherlock had rearranged John and himself on the sofa until they were nestled together, John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders, Sherlock leaning back heavily against John, his head nestled in the crook of John's neck, John's legs wrapped around Sherlock's torso. John couldn't remember the last time he'd held someone like this.

From that point on, he'd given up any pretense that he was still watching Sean Connery delivering witty retorts to poorly written evil monologues. He was just reveling in the feeling of warmth and pressure and proximity.

When James Bond had his obligatory fight with, and seduction of, the femme fatale of the evening, Sherlock scoffed audibly, but John tensed. For whatever reason, he'd always found this scene arousing. He wasn't sure if it was because of Pussy Galore, the inappropriately named blonde who resisted Bond's charms to the very end, or Connery, young and lean and muscled, with that _accent_. Or it could have something to do with the hay bales. John briefly wondered if he had a farm fetish.

Sherlock sniggered. "Really, John? Your... appreciation of this scene is becoming distracting," he purred. "You want me to toss you in the hay?" he suggested with a smirk.

John realized with a shock that he was half hard and pressing into Sherlock's lower back.

"Um." _Good going there, Watson._

Sherlock just chuckled, low and throaty.

For the rest of the movie, John was concentrating on breathing evenly, more than anything else. He stared blankly at the screen but his eyes weren't focusing on anything.

"Bathroom's the second door, correct?"

John blinked dazedly as Sherlock slipped out of his embrace and strolled towards the bathroom. He hadn't even noticed that the movie was over.

John shook his head as though to clear it, and brought the dirty dishes back to the kitchen. His steps were shaky at first before the circulation in his legs returned and his thoughts came back down to Earth. Maybe he should have chosen a different film. One that wouldn't trigger an inappropriate arousal while sitting pressed up against his date. Although, with how close they'd been sitting, John supposed it had been inevitable, really. He was more turned on by Sherlock than James Bond. The scene had just been what tipped John over the edge.

He rolled up his sleeves to the elbows as he scrubbed at the red sauce stains and remnants of cheese still clinging to the light blue ceramic dinner plates. He was so absorbed that he didn't notice when Sherlock came out of the bathroom and stole up behind him.

John startled as he felt warm arms wrap around him. The plate he was holding fell into the sink with a clatter, and then there were lips on his neck, and all coherent thought fled. John twisted desperately in Sherlock's grasp and the lips moved to his chin, his jaw, his mouth, one hand buried in his hair and the other stroking his cheek.

John was pressed up against the sink, the counter cutting uncomfortably into the small of his back. His hands were soapy, and the tap was still running. And now Sherlock was kissing him desperately, practically shoving John's sweater over his head, to fall in a soft heap on the floor. It was all a bit much. Not to say that John wasn't enjoying it. Just...

"Sherlock, can you - just stop a minute, alright?"

Sherlock broke off kissing a line along John's jaw and blinked a few times in irritation. "What?"

John twisted the faucet knob, turning off the tap, and reached past Sherlock to grab a towel for his still-wet hands. He met Sherlock's eyes before speaking. "Let's just take it slow, okay?"

Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows together in irritation. "You don't want to fuck me?"

"Christ!" John swore, willing away the very graphic - and appealing - images that turn of phrase had brought to mind.

Sherlock's glower deepened.

"Right. Um. I... I do want to," John corrected hastily. "I want it very badly. But... this is only our second date. I don't want you thinking I'm easy, do I?" He flashed a lopsided grin at Sherlock.

Sherlock pouted, his lower lip protruding just slightly, and John tried to restrain himself from smiling.

"It's just that... Have you ever done this before?"

"Define _this_." Sherlock drawled, adopting a bored tone.

John hesitated. "Sex?"

"...No."

"That's what I thought."

Sherlock glared in response, arms crossed against his chest.

"Look, that's not a bad thing! You're only eighteen; I'm not expecting Hugh Hefner."

"Who?"

"Never mind. I'm just saying that we don't have to go all the way right now. It's not all or nothing."

"How far do you want to go, then?"

John paused, and attempted to clear the nervousness from his voice before continuing. "I was thinking second base."

"Second what?"

"Haven't you heard of second base before? Under the shirt, but above the belt. First base is kissing." Seeing Sherlock's incredulous expression, he added, "It's a baseball analogy."

"Yes, that makes everything clearer."

John bit his lip. "Why don't I show you, instead?"

Sherlock smirked in anticipation and started unbuttoning his waistcoat. He looked over at John under long eyelashes, waiting for him to make the first move. It made John think of a predator feigning injury to lure in its prey.

Well, even if he felt out of his depth, there was something to be said for taking initiative. John leaned in and started kissing Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock moaned, and John smiled as he kissed his way from the hollow of Sherlock's jaw down to his collarbone. Finally, Sherlock was relaxing into John, humming appreciatively as he worked his way downwards. When his cheek hit the soft silk of Sherlock's shirt, John carefully undid the top two buttons and slid the slippery material off of the pale white shoulder, lips and tongue following.

"John..." Sherlock whispered, voice husky.

Alarmed, John pulled back.

Sherlock blinked as his eyes refocused. "I didn't want you to stop," he complained.

"Right. Sorry. Let's try this again."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "No, you had your chance. It's my turn now." Smirking wickedly, he pulled John out of the kitchen and over to the couch. He pushed John down flat onto his back, before scrambling on top and straddling his hips. John gasped as he felt Sherlock's erection through the fabric of his slacks.

"Are you sure you've never done this before?"

Sherlock bent down and whispered in John's ear, hot breath ghosting against John's flesh. "I'm a quick study."

John groaned audibly, and Sherlock mimicked the maneuver John had performed just moments ago, sucking lightly on the hinge of his jaw just behind his ear. John gasped as Sherlock's nose brushed against his ear, and Sherlock hesitantly moved his mouth to John's earlobe and bit down lightly. John thrashed from the sensation, which caused his rapidly hardening cock to rub against Sherlock's. He let out a strangled groan as Sherlock moved from ear to neck to collarbone. Sherlock shifted purposefully as he leaned back to unbutton John's shirt, and the friction caused John to gasp and buck his hips in response.

"You're enjoying torturing me, aren't you?" John gasped out breathlessly as Sherlock continued to slowly shift on top of him. He grabbed at Sherlock's angular hips in a failed attempt to control the movement.

"A bit," Sherlock managed, equally breathless, as he spread John's shirt wide with long, pale fingers. He leant down and placed his mouth on John's exposed nipple.

"Sherlock!" John gasped, arching into the sensation. It was sloppy and wet and there wasn't enough pressure, but, oh, Sherlock's mouth was on him, he was...

Sherlock paused in his ministrations, mouth glistening, and straightened up to loom over John. He looked down at John greedily. "Yes, like that. Say my name again."

"Um." John looked vaguely guilty. "It's just - I don't want to bother the neighbors, and the walls are so thin..."

Sherlock smiled mischievously and started moaning, quietly at first and then increasingly loudly.

"God, shut up, Sherlock! You're such an asshole! Seriously!" But John was laughing, and Sherlock was giddy, and then Sherlock thrust in just the right way to make John gasp.

Sherlock crushed John's lips with his own, desperately licking and biting as their hips continued to grind together.

John's hands scrambled for purchase at Sherlock's hips, his thumbs finally slipping under the waistband of the well-fitting slacks, fingers splayed against Sherlock's firm ass, and he frantically pulled Sherlock tight against him. God, that felt good. Sherlock moved to nibble on John's earlobe once more, still grinding against him. John gasped with pleasure, and Sherlock's lips moved back to John's.

This would be so much better if he could feel Sherlock's skin against his own. There was too much clothing. He needed to feel Sherlock, needed to touch him, wanted to be inside him-

"Fuck!" John groaned into Sherlock's mouth. "Stop. Stop!"

Sherlock pulled away in panic. "What? What's wrong?"

John panted as he recovered his breath. "I can't - if you don't stop, I'm going to fuck you right now, on this couch."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he swallowed thickly.

"What if I want you to?"

John's breath hitched and he struggled to get his libido back under control. "Well, I don't. That is, I do, but not yet." John sighed. "Besides, I don't have any lube or condoms," he added.

"Oh," Sherlock said, succinctly.

"Can I get up now?"

"Right. Yes." Sherlock carefully slid off John and knelt on the floor beside him as John raised himself to a sitting position.

"I don't want you to think I didn't enjoy that. Because I did, very much."

"I - yes. Also. Found it enjoyable. That is."

John smiled. "Yes, I could tell." He eyed Sherlock's crotch, the bulge still painfully obvious; a wet spot seeping through the fabric. It would be so easy to lean down and take a taste... John forced his eyes back upward. "You might want to take care of that after..." _Oh._ "After you get home."

_Shit._ He had to take Sherlock home. In this state?

"Right. Yes." Sherlock blinked rapidly at John.

"Um. So. I guess I should take you home now."

Sherlock breathed in a few times before answering. "Well, if we're not going to continue, then yes. I think that would be best." Sherlock's smirk belied the apparent harshness of his tone.

"Right. I'll, um, just be a minute." John scrambled for the bathroom, casting one last glance at Sherlock as he left. He was still kneeling on the floor, hair mussed, lips bruised and red, shirt partly unbuttoned, gazing intently at John.

John, distracted by the sight, stubbed his toe on the door frame. His cursing was short-lived, but Sherlock's loud laughter followed him into the bathroom.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock was in a daze as he waited for John to come out of the bathroom. That had been _intense_, to say the least. He'd never felt this way with Victor.

He remembered sitting on the bed in Victor's room, kissing, wishing his boyfriend didn't use rather so much tongue, when Victor had leaned back, breathless, and asked if Sherlock wanted to "get more comfortable." It had taken Sherlock a moment to realise he was being propositioned, and once he did, he had nearly doubled over in laughter and embarrassment. He was not interested in _that_. At least, not with Victor.

Victor had been hurt, of course, and Sherlock hadn't understood until it was too late, and Victor had already started avoiding him. Then Father had died, and suddenly Sherlock had more pressing things on his mind than offended would-be lovers.

With John, though... God, John was fantastic. Being with John made Sherlock physically tremble with desire. He wanted him so much that it sometimes scared him. And he'd never doubted, not once, that he wanted to sleep with this man, that he wanted to explore every inch of his body and feel him, all of him...

But this train of thought was _not_ helping the current situation. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. John wasn't ready for... well, for all the things Sherlock wanted. So Sherlock would wait. Surely he wouldn't have to wait long.

God, he hoped not.

And what was he supposed to do about... that? He glanced down. John had mentioned something about "taking care" of it when he got back home. Doing what? Masturbating? He'd attempted that a few times in secondary school, and it had been miserable. He didn't fancy trying that again. Though perhaps if he thought of John, it would be... more pleasant.

Sherlock got unsteadily to his feet and brushed down his rather rumpled suit. He tamed his hair as best he could with no comb or mirror, re-buttoned his shirt and waistcoat, and was just retrieving his suit jacket from the closet when John came out of the bathroom.

_John._ He was flushed and still somewhat aroused, judging from his dilated pupils. Sherlock's problem reared its head again, so to speak, and he tried to think of something to quell his reaction. Mycroft; that always worked. _Ugh._

John glanced at the oven clock and smiled tightly. "Suppose it's just as well; it's almost ten." He gently shooed Sherlock out of the way as he retrieved his shoes from the closet. He'd pulled his jumper from the kitchen floor, and had it halfway over his head, when Sherlock stole up behind him and wrapped his arms around John. There was something delightful about the sight of John with his arms poking through the blue sleeves, his face half obscured by the fabric. Awkward and wonderful.

"Here, let me help." Sherlock tugged the sleeves of the jumper over John's arms, noting with satisfaction the blush that had crept up John's neck.

"Thanks," John murmured huskily, twisting in Sherlock's embrace. Sherlock leaned in and John's lips were warm, and so soft, and just a tiny bit rough from the dry weather. He didn't use lip balm, like Sherlock did. Sherlock let his tongue dart out to swipe at John's lower lip, and-

John pulled away, breathless. "If we keep doing this, you'll never get home."

Sherlock smiled in his best attempt at seduction, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

"Oh, no, you don't. Shoes on and then we're leaving. No excuses." John paused and grinned. "And no more stealth kissing!" He pushed Sherlock in the direction of the closet, swatting his arse playfully.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock was staring out the window. He'd been silent for most of the drive, and John was starting to fidget as he drove. He was starting to spend more time glancing at Sherlock than looking at the road.

"Um. Thanks. For tonight. I had fun."

Sherlock just continued staring out the window.

"Right. Yes."

"It's interesting," Sherlock said abruptly. "Seeing things the wrong way 'round."

John glanced over at Sherlock, startled, before hastily turning back to watch the road.

"I don't think about it much, any more. Living here for three years, you sort of get used to it." Sherlock sighed. "But the fact still remains that you're on the wrong side of the road." Sherlock turned to look at John, grinning.

"That started out much more philosophical than it ended up."

"Philosophizing is for lesser men."

John just snorted.

They spent the rest of the drive in a companionable silence, and when John pulled up in front of Sherlock's dorm, Sherlock unbuckled his seat belt. Turning towards John, he leaned forward, buried his hands in John's hair, and kissed him soundly.

After a minute, he pulled back, smiling. "See you tomorrow," he noted, a little breathlessly.

John just blinked. "Tomorrow. Yeah."

He watched as Sherlock ran back to the dorm entrance, then just sat silently in his car, mind buzzing pleasantly. Finally he shook his head and started driving home, smile never leaving his face.


	11. Fragmentation

_**Author's Note**_

Just when you thought you were safe... angst attacks! Fair warning: the next few chapters may make you, the reader, want to stab me, the author. Fortunately for me, I am kept semi-anonymous thanks to the wonders of the internet. To anyone who knows my secret identity: do not give into temptation. If I suffer grievous bodily injury, it will be more difficult to stick to my posting schedule.

I promise there will be a happy ending.

And, again, thank you so much to those who have been leaving reviews. I giggle madly every time I see a new one. :)

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**Chapter 11: Fragmentation**_

"Morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock lifted his eyes from his mobile. Jim was leaning casually on the desk next to his, smiling. An outside observer would have just seen two students chatting casually before class. But there was a tension in Jim's small frame, and his grin looked stiff, somehow. It was enough to attract Sherlock's full attention, and Jim's smile softened almost imperceptibly.

"Did you do anything fun last night?" Jim asked mildly.

"I suppose," Sherlock responded, non-committal.

"It certainly looks like it."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked casually.

Jim placed a finger casually on his bottom lip. "You should be careful, you know. People might talk."

"They do little else." Sherlock felt his lips turn down in a frown. Clearly, Jim knew what had happened last night. He'd guessed from Sherlock's posture, perhaps, or the way-

John entered the classroom, wearing a new light blue button down shirt and tan slacks with his usual chequered tie. He was smiling broadly, and his eyes crinkled up when he saw Sherlock. Sherlock's whole body relaxed, and he smiled back at John, as everything else faded from view.

Jim leaned close after John walked over to the front table to set up his laptop.

"Don't worry, I won't tell Irene," he breathed, laughter in his voice. "You might want to stop staring before she notices, though."

Sherlock blinked. Surely he hadn't been staring? He glanced back over at Jim.

Jim was smiling sincerely at Sherlock, but his eyes - Jim's eyes were boring into Sherlock's, dark and sharp and shining. Sherlock's heart started beating faster.

"Thanks," he replied, turning back to the front, gaze carefully directed away from John. "I'll keep that in mind."

.x.x.x.x.x.

On Tuesday morning, Sherlock stepped into John's office promptly at ten, and shut the door firmly behind him.

The past few days had been utterly frustrating. The after-effects of his encounter with John had subsided, but Sherlock's discomfort had never really gone away, and his attempts to address the issue himself had been unproductive at best.

He had spent all weekend thinking of John, unable to concentrate on his school work or experiments. On Monday, he had been careful not to embarrass John in public by studying him too closely during class or approaching him afterwards. The only thing that had gotten him through the day was the thought of being able to spend Tuesday morning with John. He smiled in anticipation as he strode up to John's desk.

"You don't have official office hours until one," he explained, in response to John's wary expression.

He stepped forward and started to snog John enthusiastically. Everything was going swimmingly, but then John stood and pushed him away gently.

"Sherlock..." he began, his brow furrowed unhappily, "I like this, you know I do, but it's not appropriate while I'm at work. It's one thing for you to come in here and spend time with me while I work, but... You can't just... If we're going to do," he gestured helplessly, "_this_, then we should do it when I'm not on the clock."

Sherlock blinked, embarrassed and frustrated. This was not going as he had pictured. John had already demanded that he refrain from being affectionate in public. Now he wanted Sherlock to ignore him in private, too?

"Right," Sherlock responded tightly. "I'll be off, then."

"What? No! You don't have to leave, Sherlock. Just don't kiss me when I should be working."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's all I can think about lately. So. I'll just... see you later."

"Oh. I -"

Sherlock didn't wait for John to finish his sentence before practically fleeing out the door.

God, he needed a cigarette.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock was standing outside the entrance to the engineering centre, halfway through his second cigarette, when Jim exited the maths building and strolled over.

"Sherlock! Fancy seeing you here. Aren't you usually in John's office on Tuesdays?"

Sherlock scowled and looked away from Jim.

"Ah. Trouble in paradise, is it?" Jim's voice was soft with a hint of sympathy, but also something else, and it made Sherlock's attention snap up to the older student's face.

Jim was watching Sherlock intently and standing just a bit too close, the warmth from his body radiating outward.

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock said stiffly.

Jim merely smiled knowingly. It was the same expression Mycroft wore when he thought his brother was being unnecessarily stubborn. On Jim, it wasn't infuriating, but Sherlock still felt himself recoil minutely.

Jim's expression changed to one of sympathy, and Sherlock's uneasiness dissipated somewhat. "Want to grab a drink and talk about it? Let off some steam? Or we could just talk about class. I could tell you about my research."

Sherlock hesitated. There was something overeager about Jim's smile, and it unsettled him. He'd rather be with John right now, but that wasn't an option, was it? And Sherlock desperately wanted to get John out of his head.

It would be a relief, Sherlock reasoned, to have something to focus on other than John. "I'd be amenable to that," he replied with a small smile, and they set off for the lobby together.

.x.x.x.x.x.

John was limping.

On Tuesday, after Sherlock had fled his office, John had fought his irrational need to apologize. He wasn't being unreasonable; he really did need to get work done, and he couldn't just spend hours making out with his (student? boyfriend? almost-lover?) instead of doing research and grading. But he still felt guilty. Sherlock had been avoiding his eye in class, and then on Thursday John had spent all day in wait mode because Sherlock hadn't come to his office hours. Greg had dropped by in the early afternoon to chat about their class, and John's heart had leapt in his chest when he thought it was Sherlock. Greg did not seem amused when John's face fell upon seeing him.

Sherlock hadn't texted John since last Thursday (just before their date), and he hadn't sent any emails or tried to call, and John was...

John was not freaking out. Certainly not.

Maybe just a little.

John had watched on Friday, the day after their date, as Jim had stolen up to Sherlock, and smiled at him, and batted his damn eyelashes, and whispered something in his ear. Sherlock had shuddered, just slightly, and smiled, and John - John knew that look, knew what it meant coming from Sherlock. He wasn't worried then, not really, but in retrospect...

On Wednesday he'd been forced to take his cane to class, and he'd leaned on it heavily whenever Greg was speaking. The pain wasn't overwhelming, but it was a consistent, dull ache that made him feel brittle and impotent and old. And though Sherlock had been assiduously avoiding eye contact, Jim had looked at him then. Jim had winced and quickly looked away, as though he were feeling guilty about something.

Thursday night, John had texted Sherlock, not an _are you avoiding me, will you stop being such a prick_, just a simple _how are you, what's going on_. But Sherlock hadn't replied.

So it was no surprise, really, that when Jim and Sherlock left the classroom together on Friday morning, after almost a week of not talking to Sherlock, John's leg seized up.

Greg, who had been packing up his class notes at the front of the room, whirled about when he heard John's cane clatter to the floor. "Jesus, John! Are you okay?" He crouched over John, worry etched onto his features.

"Fine. I'm fine. Just give me some space." He struggled to his knees, grabbing at the cane that had fallen from his grip as he'd seen Jim and Sherlock exiting the room together, Jim trailing Sherlock so closely that the two men were almost touching.

Greg crossed his arms over his chest and glared crankily at John. "I believe it is my duty, as your friend, to inform you that you're full of shit."

John glared. "Well, then, as my friend, I'm sure you'll understand when I tell you to go fuck yourself."

Greg just lifted his eyebrows in surprise, but his mouth was curving upward in amusement.

John winced when he realized what he'd said. Greg had only been trying to help, and he hadn't deserved that. John may have felt like shit, but that was no reason to treat his friends like the same.

"God, I'm sorry Greg. That was uncalled for. I just... It's been a bad week."

"I'll say. You haven't brought your cane to class in ages. Date not go well, I take it?"

John glanced around the classroom nervously, but there were no students lingering. Thank God.

"No, it went fine, actually. Great. I... told him off on Tuesday because he was... being distracting." John could tell he was blushing, but Greg was still looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "He hasn't spoken to me since."

"That's Sherlock for you. A regular nuisance," Greg chuckled.

John smiled fondly. "Isn't he? I just wish he weren't so damned... You probably don't want to hear this."

Greg grimaced. "Depends on what you were going to say, but no, probably not." His expression turned thoughtful. "So you think you hurt his feelings by asking him not to be quite so enthusiastic?"

"Oh. I hadn't thought of that." John chewed on his lip nervously.

"It'd explain why he's been avoiding you. Besides, shouldn't you be enjoying this, John? The honeymoon period only lasts so long. Lord knows I'm sick of Jenny," Greg winked. He slapped John on the back. "So what if you spend an hour or two being distracted? You've earned it, I'd think."

John flushed as he considered what an hour or two of distraction would entail.

"Look, I'm not saying you should let him hang all over you," Greg added quickly. "For one thing, I've sat on those couches in your office, and I'd like to think they're remaining sanitary."

"Jesus, Greg!" John could feel himself blushing.

He smoothly ignored John's outburst. "Just don't let your sense of duty get in the way of a good thing." Greg grinned. "Besides, Mycroft likes you. Thinks you're a good influence. You should have heard the things he said about Sherlock's last boyfriend." He rolled his eyes.

John glared. "Don't say it out loud! I don't want the whole department gossiping."

"Right, sorry." Greg looked slightly guilty. "About that... We sort of have a pool going..."

"You _what_?" It came out as more of a growl than John had intended.

"For months now, actually." Greg grinned smugly. "Have to admit, I was a bit optimistic, thought you'd be sleeping together by January."

John closed his eyes and groaned. "I hate you all."

Greg clapped him on the back. "Oh, it's not so bad. Send him some flowers and chocolates and I'm sure things will be just fine."

"Gee, thanks. I feel so blessed to be privy to your expert love advice."

"Don't worry, nothing a beer won't cure. Baker Street Pub?"

John paused to consider. He could use a friend right now. "Yeah, that sounds great, actually. Let me put my laptop away, and I'll meet you in the parking lot."

.x.x.x.x.x.

An hour after lunch, John realized his phone was missing.

He had been thinking about his conversion with Greg this morning, and decided, to hell with it. He'd been fighting the urge to apologize to Sherlock since Tuesday. Maybe it was time to stop fighting. He'd reached in his pocket to send out a text, and... Nothing. His fingers came up empty, with the exception of a few fluffy bits of pocket lint.

He'd checked his other pockets frantically. John was normally better organized than this. He never lost his keys or misplaced his cell. He must have been more affected by Sherlock than he'd thought, to get this distracted.

After searching fruitlessly through his office, Greg's car, and even using Greg's phone to call the restaurant where they'd had lunch, he'd had no luck finding it. By the time three o'clock rolled around, John realized there was only one place he hadn't yet checked. He must have left his cell phone in the classroom this morning.

He trudged down to the small classroom, musing on his bad luck. His phone had probably slipped out of his pocket when his leg gave out.

He strolled up to the classroom and opened the door, to reveal two men staring angrily at each other. The taller one jerked backward as the door swung open, clearly startled. John felt like he was intruding on something intimate, somehow, and so he averted his eyes and cleared his throat politely. "Sorry about that. Was just looking for..."

It took him a moment to register who the two men were, but as soon as he had, his gaze flicked back upward, seeking confirmation.

Jim and Sherlock.

Far too tense. Far too close.

He swallowed thickly. "My phone. Haven't seen it, have you?"

Jim looked absolutely livid. He glanced at John briefly before turning away from both John and Sherlock. "Sorry, Dr. Watson. I haven't seen it, but I wasn't really looking. I'll just get out of your way." He stalked out of the room, managing to squeeze past John without touching him.

"See you later, Sherlock," Jim said curtly. The door clicked shut behind him.

Sherlock was staring at John, horrified. "John, I-"

"What? What is it?"

Sherlock bit his lip and John felt nausea creep over him. He'd thought - he'd hoped, at least, that he was just being paranoid, that nothing was going on between Jim and Sherlock. But that was before seeing Sherlock's eyes, full of guilt and fear.

"What..." John cleared his throat. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment before blurting out, "It was only for a minute, I didn't mean to, it wasn't-"

John swallowed and held his gaze steady on Sherlock.

"We - he kissed me," Sherlock whispered. "I didn't mean to. I'm - I'm sorry."

Suddenly it was very hard to look into those grey eyes. John walked past Sherlock mutely and knelt down to check under the desk for his phone. His hand was shaking.

"John..."

John winced. He was looking forward but not really seeing anything. What was he doing? Looking for something...

Suddenly Sherlock was kneeling next to him, holding something in his hand, which he gently pressed into John's palm. His cell phone. John flinched away from the contact.

"I need to go." John struggled to his feet as quickly as he could and bolted for the exit, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.

"John, wait! I can... well, no, I can't explain, but, God, I, please just stop..." Sherlock's voice was tinged with hysteria, and John couldn't deal with it just now.

"No."

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. "No?"

John finally turned to look at Sherlock. He looked miserable. John's brain felt sticky, like taffy, and it was all he could do to choke out a strangled, "No. Just... no."

Sherlock sagged, defeated. "All right," he whispered quietly. "All right."

John turned and didn't look back. He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to get away.


	12. Fatal Error

_**Chapter 12: Fatal Error**_

Earlier that afternoon, Sherlock had been working on his most recent maths homework in the lobby when a familiar presence loomed over him.

"Hello, Jim," he said mildly, not bothering to look up.

"Hi." Jim sounded terribly cheerful. "I was wondering if you'd like to discuss our biocomputing project."

Sherlock looked up at him and frowned. "Our group just met yesterday. What could we possibly need to talk about?"

"Well, I didn't really get the chance to talk to you. I wanted to see how you liked the links I sent. Did you have questions? About implementation? Or anything else?"

Sherlock shrugged, attention turning back to his textbook.

Jim settled into the chair next to Sherlock and leaned closer. "Besides, I couldn't really say anything over the rumble of Sebastian's disapproval."

Sherlock laughed frigidly at that. "I suppose he doesn't want me getting too close to what's his."

Jim frowned. "Seb doesn't own me."

"But he wants to."

"Well, we can't always have what we want." Jim was gazing at Sherlock intently now.

Sherlock could feel himself flushing now. Bollocks.

"Maybe we could go somewhere quieter. The engineering center can be so... noisy." Jim bit his lip, and Sherlock found himself staring.

Sherlock glanced up to meet Jim's eyes. They were calm but intense. Sherlock should just walk away.

And go where? John didn't want to be seen in public with him - he was probably ashamed of him. And now Sherlock couldn't even kiss John in private.

Sherlock had spent every waking hour this past week thinking of John. John's mouth. John's laugh. John's arse. John's love of Earl Grey. John's bloody stupid jumpers. John's cooking. John's obsession with James Bond. It was driving him mad.

And after John turned him away on Tuesday, Sherlock was no longer happy about this particular obsession. He just wanted to stop thinking about John. So he tried. He didn't talk to him, didn't text him, even ignored that stupid impersonal text he'd received Thursday night, even though every bone in his body wanted to respond, to scream at John for being an idiot, and to scream at himself for being the same.

Sherlock was just John's dirty little secret, and Sherlock cursed himself for not having seen it sooner.

The thought of being unwanted clawed at Sherlock's throat.

Jim was fascinating, and he was here, and he clearly wanted him. When Sherlock was with Jim, he could forget, if only for a little while.

He smiled thinly at Jim. "Where did you have in mind?"

Jim grinned back at Sherlock. "The lab where we have class doesn't have anything going on Friday afternoon. We could go there."

Sherlock nodded briefly in acquiescence, and started packing up his things.

Sherlock followed Jim in silence, as the graduate student nattered on about Bayesian networks. They reached the classroom without Sherlock really registering his surroundings, but he felt a flicker of alarm when Jim shut the door gently behind him.

Jim kicked something across the floor and it skittered under the front desk. What was that? It had sounded like an mp3 player, or a mobile.

He was just opening his mouth to ask Jim, when the other man leaned close, grasped Sherlock's upper arms, and descended on his lips.

What? Sherlock was too startled to respond, to do anything, really, beyond stand there and let Jim's tongue force its way into his mouth. Oh, God, this was wrong, this was so wrong, and Sherlock didn't like it all. It was nothing like John. It wasn't even like Victor. But his muscles weren't working, and he didn't know what to do, and so he just stood there, like an idiot...

Finally Jim pulled back and looked at Sherlock with a disgruntled expression. "Look, if you're not going to kiss me back, it sort of defeats the purpose-"

Sherlock's body finally responded, and he stumbled gracelessly backwards and nearly fell over the desk behind him. "What was that?"

Jim sputtered for a moment before his brow furrowed in indignation. "What were you expecting? You've been flirting with me all week, I thought-" Jim dragged a hand through his hair and started pacing back and forth. "Why would you go to an empty classroom with me if you didn't-" He suddenly gazed at Sherlock, his lip curling up in a snarl. "You're an idiot. And here I was, thinking you were the only other intelligent man in the department." Jim sneered. "I suppose we're not so alike, after all."

"You're wrong." Sherlock's voice was rough, too loud in the still room, even though he was barely speaking over a whisper.

Jim's eyes widened slightly. His hand drifted towards Sherlock's shoulder and he leaned closer...

"Don't touch me!" Sherlock hissed. His whole body was taut with tension, muscles clenching in agony. "You knew about John. You-"

"Didn't mean I couldn't hope," Jim said, arm dropping and hands balling into fists at his sides, his chest falling up and down with rapid breaths. "You have no idea how long I've..." He looked askance at Sherlock, lips set in a straight line, an anger burning in his eyes that Sherlock had never seen before. "You certainly didn't act the part of faithful boyfriend, did you?"

The words stung, and Sherlock struggled to take in a deep breath, but it felt like his lungs were filling up with liquid, and he couldn't take in enough oxygen. Jim was close - too close - his face centimetres away from Sherlock's. He could smell coffee and mint, feel the faint whisper of Jim's breath against his cheek.

It wasn't until the door swung open that Sherlock came to himself and jerked instinctively backwards, away from the door, away from Jim.

The man in the doorway cleared his throat. "Sorry about that. Was just looking for..."

Sherlock looked sharply at the source of the voice, and it felt like all the breath was being sucked out of him.

John.

John was staring at Sherlock, eyes wide. "My phone," John continued, trying his best not to seem shaken. "Haven't seen it, have you?"

Jim stormed out of the room in a huff. Sherlock barely noticed his departure.

There was no way for Sherlock to hide this from John. He could tell from the dawning horror in John's eyes that he was already making his own assumptions. Better to just tell him.

"John, I-"

His tongue stuck in his throat.

"What? What is it?" John's hands were trembling, as though he was resisting the urge to clench them into fists, but his eyes never left Sherlock's. "What... Is there something you want to tell me?"

Before he even registered that he was speaking, Sherlock felt the words come tumbling out. "It was only for a minute, I didn't mean to, it wasn't-" Sherlock stopped, tried to will his heart to stop pounding so furiously in his chest. He had to keep breathing. Just breathe. "We - he kissed me. I didn't mean to. I'm - I'm sorry."

The silence stretched horribly, and John's eyes glossed over, unfocused, his face a mask. No sadness, no anger - just nothing. He stumbled past Sherlock and fell to his knees next to the front table.

Sherlock hesitated before striding over to kneel next to him. "John..."

John flinched back, away from Sherlock's voice. Sherlock reached for the phone he'd seen Jim kick a few minutes ago, and tucked it into John's loose grasp. His fingertips brushed against warm skin, and John shrank back as though he'd been burnt.

(What had Sherlock been expecting? A grateful smile? Even he couldn't be that naive.)

The physical contact seemed to spur John to action. He leapt to his feet using the table as support, and barked out a panicked "I need to go," before practically running towards the door.

"John, wait! I can... well, no, I can't explain, but, God, I, please just stop..." Was that really Sherlock speaking? He sounded so... small.

"No."

For a few moments, neither of them moved. Sherlock didn't understand, couldn't parse the meaning. It didn't make any sense. All Sherlock could manage was to parrot back John's response in the form of a question. "No?"

John turned and met Sherlock's eye. John looked ruined. Desolate. Sherlock had never seen John that way before, and it terrified him.

"No. Just... no."

There was nothing Sherlock could do.

So he let John go.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock wandered back to the main engineering building in a daze. He hadn't even noticed where he was until he found himself standing outside the door to the computer science wing. He pushed his way inside and sat down heavily on top of the table in the darkened hall outside the CSEL, his back to the large window that was spilling a pool of fluorescent light from the lab's interior.

It was close to John without being too close. He couldn't bear the thought of going off-campus, but neither could he muster up the courage to go to John's office and try to apologize.

He was momentarily distracted from his internal dilemma by the obnoxiously loud approach of an upperclassman.

"Oh, it's you." Sherlock sagged as he saw Sebastian Moran stride towards him.

Sebastian sneered at Sherlock when he finally reached the table where Sherlock was sitting. "Happy now? Or are you going to go crawling back to your professor?" He spat out the word 'professor' with venom.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?" How much did the idiot actually know? Had he been talking to Jim?

Sebastian crossed his arms over his chest and loomed over Sherlock's perch on the hall table. The effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that Sherlock was several inches taller than Sebastian, even half-sitting, but the tightly-wound muscles visible through Sebastian's shirt left Sherlock ill-at-ease. "I know that Jim won't shut up about you. That if you knew what was good for you, you'd take him up on his offer."

"What offer? He hasn't offered me anything. Except perhaps a bit more tongue than I'm generally keen on."

Sebastian flushed with fury. His hands were clenching into fists, and Sherlock willed himself not to flinch away. After a moment, Sebastian seemed to calm himself, smiling menacingly at Sherlock.

"I'm not saying I'm happy about it. But what Jim wants, Jim gets. And it looks like he's set his sights on you." His lip curled in distaste, in case Sherlock wasn't absolutely clear on what Sebastian thought of that.

"Well, unfortunately for Jim, I'm not available for the taking," Sherlock spat. He stood up and started to move away from Sebastian. This was ridiculous.

Sebastian grabbed Sherlock roughly by the collar of his t-shirt. "Where do you think you're going, exactly?"

Sherlock fought to remain completely still. His heart pounded frantically in his chest and his hands were suddenly clammy, but he kept his expression light, eyes mocking. "Away from the immediate vicinity. There's something putrid nearby and I was hoping to get a bit of fresh air." He sneered at Sebastian.

Admittedly, insulting the man who was currently manhandling him was not one of Sherlock's brightest ideas.

He certainly hadn't anticipated the fist that swung at his jaw. Looking back, though, it was rather obvious, and Sherlock was irritated that he'd missed something so blatant.

Sherlock grunted in pain as Sebastian's fist collided with his lower jaw. Sebastian was still clutching Sherlock's shirt collar, and so they both crashed against the table, legs tangled, and the sudden weight caused the table to unbalance and start tipping beneath them. Sherlock struggled to keep to his feet, but the heavy weight of Sebastian pressed against his chest wouldn't budge, and his squirming only succeeded in pulling both of them to the floor with a thump.

The impact knocked the breath out of him, and Sebastian was still hitting him, shouting, "Fuck you! You don't deserve him anyway!" the sound muffled by Sherlock's chest. Sherlock was vaguely aware of kicking and scratching at the stronger student, when suddenly the weight was removed, and faces were peering down at him. Sherlock saw three students he vaguely recognized - they must have been studying in the lab and come out when they saw the commotion through the large glass window - as well as the rather unwelcome sight of Professor Donovan.

"Sherlock!" she scolded. "What did you do to him?"

"I believe he took issue to his boyfriend kissing me," Sherlock replied smoothly. He touched his jaw gingerly. There didn't seem to be any major damage.

"Wait - what?" Sally just looked at him, dumbfounded, and then back to Sebastian, who was being talked down by a couple of graduate students who had helped wrestle him off of Sherlock.

"No, not John, you idiot," Sherlock snapped.

Sally looked briefly guilty, then calculating. "I thought…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's the worst kept secret in the department, isn't it? You've had a wager going for months. Since before John even realized he was attracted to me. Both you and Anderson bet on us not working out, but that's only because Anderson is a git. You think I'm not - that I'm not good enough for him." His voice faltered on the last part. It was true, wasn't it?

Sally frowned at Sherlock. "Wait a minute. You were kissing someone other than John?" She looked furious now.

Sherlock winced, but said nothing. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't infuriate her further.

"You're - God, you're a bastard. Do you know what that will do to him?"

Sherlock looked away. "Yes," he said quietly.

"Are you sure you do? Because -"

"Yes!" he snapped. "I know exactly what it did to him."

Sally grimaced. "You're a piece of work."

Sherlock was used to Sally's particular brand of antipathy, but the comment still stung. "Thanks. I'm aware. Can I leave now?"

Sally sneered in disgust. "Good riddance."

.x.x.x.x.x.

John was sitting in his office, staring numbly at his laptop screen, when a knock sounded on his closed door. He didn't want to get up; maybe he could just pretend he wasn't there.

Unfortunately, the knocking persisted. It was probably Greg. He had been worried about him. John hadn't talked to him since he'd used Greg's phone to call the restaurant, and for all Greg knew, John was still fruitlessly searching for his phone.

He'd been too numb to call and let Greg know he'd found it.

He padded over to the door and unlatched it before reluctantly pulling it open.

And there was Sherlock.

John shut the door in his face.

Oh, God. That wasn't right. Even though Sherlock was about the last person he wanted to see.

He swung the door back open.

"What is it?" he asked tiredly, forcing himself to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared down at his shoes, and John finally registered the faint purple mottling his chin.

"Do you happen to have a first aid kit?"

John's eyes widened. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"Apparently Sebastian has a jealous streak."

"Sebastian? What?" John stared blankly at the bruise on Sherlock's jaw. He was having trouble processing the situation. Why the hell would Sebastian punch Sherlock?

"It doesn't matter."

Fuck. This was not happening.

"Go to Wardenburg, Sherlock. Have a real doctor look at you," John chided.

"I don't want a real doctor, John. I want you." Sherlock's tone was desperate.

God. Did he not realize what he'd done? Could he not see how much John wanted to strangle him right now?

"No. It's not going to happen, Sherlock. Just go." John tried to make his tone as even as possible, but it came out like ice, and Sherlock visibly flinched.

"Please..."

"Please what?" John snapped.

"Let me come in. I just... I need to talk. About what happened."

"No." John couldn't talk. He couldn't think. He didn't want to. He wanted everything to just… stop.

"No?" Sherlock's voice cracked on the word. "What do you mean?"

"I can't. I just - I can't."

"Forgive me," Sherlock pleaded. The sound sent a chill through John.

He shook his head blindly, wincing at the jolt of pain the movement caused.

God. Why wouldn't Sherlock just leave?

Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, and when he finally broke the silence, John lost it.

"Because I didn't-"

John threw his hands in the air in frustration. "No! Not another word! Not another fucking sound! Get out, and leave me the hell alone!"

Sherlock jumped back, startled, his eyes wide, instinctively holding his arms out in front of him defensively, palms spread wide in a gesture of surrender. He was silent for a moment, finally whispering, "I'll just go then." He turned and walked out, head craned back to watch John as he left, eyes shimmering with something desperate and dark.

John slammed the door as soon as Sherlock had cleared the threshold, before slumping against his desk, completely drained.

.x.x.x.x.x.

John let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding.

"Fuck."

The word sounded strange in the empty quiet of his office.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent off a quick message.

**_Found my phone. Need a drink. More than one, preferably. You free? JW_**

**_I'm always free where alcohol is concerned. Lunch not enough for you? Is everything okay?_**

**_Not remotely. I'm still on campus - meet you at the Dark Horse? JW_**

**_Yeah, or I can pick you up. Let me know, I'll leave in 5._**

John considered meeting Greg at the bar, but thought better of it when the twinge in his leg informed him that biking or walking would not, in fact, be viable options.

He dialed the familiar number, plastering a smile on his face in the hope that it would help him sound more cheerful. "Hi Greg. Can you meet me here?"

Greg hesitated a beat. "Of course. I'll be there in ten, fifteen minutes, tops."

"See you then."

Maybe John should have suggested a different bar. The Dark Horse was right next to Sherlock's dorm, and John really didn't want any reminders of his student right now. He didn't imagine he would bump into Sherlock at the bar, though. John snorted at the thought of Sherlock with a fake ID. It actually wasn't all that implausible, come to think of it.

God, why was he doing this to himself? Why was he incapable of forgetting about Sherlock for even a few minutes?

At least the Dark Horse had good burgers.

John took a steadying breath and hobbled down to the lobby. No sign of Sherlock, thank God.

By the time he got to the parking lot, Greg was already pulling up.

"So," Greg asked as John slid into the passenger seat, "where did you find your phone?"

John was silent for too long, and Greg frowned. "Did something else happen?"

"Yeah."

They drove in silence for a few minutes before Greg spoke up again. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

"You want to talk about it?"

"Not without a beer in me."

"Alright." Greg patted John on the shoulder absently.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Two beers in, John still didn't feel like talking. About Sherlock, anyway.

"I'm too old for this shit. You know how long it's been since I last got laid?" He started counting on his fingers, but gave up after a full hand. "Too fucking long. Or too un-fucking long." He giggled into his beer.

Greg just sighed and took another swig. "You're not as funny as you think you are."

"Yeah, I am! I am a master of... Funny. Funny stuff. Things. Fuck."

"Jokes?"

"Those." He drained his glass. "Time for another."

Greg shook his head. "No way! At this rate I'm going to have to carry you home."

John pouted.

"Tell you what," Greg offered. "We can play a game. I ask a question, you answer truthfully, and then we both drink."

"Sure!" John agreed readily. Something nagged at the back of his already alcohol-addled mind; there was something odd about Greg's tone. John dismissed the thought. He was looking forward to an excuse to drink more beer.

Greg took a breath before speaking. "Okay. First question. What the hell happened today that got you so messed up?"

John frowned, but his expression cleared quickly. Ah. He could answer that one. No sweat.

"Sherlock. Now where's my beer?"

Greg frowned at John disapprovingly. "Hey, that's not good enough. What did Sherlock do?"

John smiled ruefully. "What _didn't_ he do?"

Greg grimaced.

"Sure," John started cheerily, "I'll tell you what he did. I was looking for my phone, down in the classroom, and who happened to be there but my favorite students. Jim and Sherlock. Apparently just finished exploring each other's tonsils. That was fantastic. A great way to end an already spectacularly shitty day."

Greg just stared at him in shock. "What?"

John barked, "Kissing, Greg! They'd been kissing."

Greg let out a shaky breath. "Jesus, John."

"I definitely deserve a beer for _that_ question."

"Oh God, John. I'm so sorry."

John closed his eyes and slumped back in his chair.

Greg squeezed John's shoulder. "I'll grab you that beer."

.x.x.x.x.x.

John giggled, teetering on his bar stool, and Greg looked down at him in concern.

"This is so fucked up. He got beaten up - did I tell you? He got beaten by some student and he came to my office asking for first aid. He should have just gone to the campus hospital. Why did he go to my office?"

Greg just sighed and rubbed at his temples. John had been babbling miserably for the past two hours. Once he'd finally opened up about Sherlock, the man wouldn't shut up. Even though it was only seven thirty, Greg was considering calling John a taxi, just so he could go home and sleep.

After finishing his third beer, John had followed Greg to the bar, and Greg hadn't bothered returning to their table. John was too far gone to care about the lack of privacy.

"How long do you think they…" John's voice broke and he stared blankly ahead, gaze unfocused, shoulders taut with tension.

Greg had his suspicions, but that wasn't what John needed to hear right now. "It was probably just the one time." Greg rubbed at the nape of his neck nervously. Jim had always creeped him out a little, and Sherlock was... well, he was Sherlock. Greg doubted he'd actually hurt John knowingly, but he'd seen the way Sherlock looked at Jim during class.

He shook off the thought and forced himself to look at John. He attempted a sympathetic expression, but it probably just looked constipated. Not that John would notice, considering how much he'd been drinking.

"Yeah, I guess," John sighed. "But this could have been going on for months, how would I know?"

Greg shrugged, uncomfortable. He wasn't used to dealing with friends who'd been cheated on, and he'd never admit out loud that he knew exactly what John was going through. He turned back to his soda and stirred the straw in a slow circle, wondering belatedly how long it would take for all the ice to melt.

"I screamed at him," John admitted, staring into his glass miserably. "Told him to leave me alone. Fuck. What am I doing?"

Greg turned towards John, baffled. "How the hell would I know?" he retorted.

John glared balefully at his friend.

Greg turned away from John, feeling slightly guilty. Not meeting John's eyes, he commented dryly, "Right. So you're just going to let him get away with kissing another man because, what, he doesn't know any better? That's bullshit."

"I don't know! What would you do? If Jenny..."

Greg snarled, voice low. "Don't you bring Jenny into this. That's entirely different."

"How is it so different? You love Jenny; it would hurt like hell to find her kissing another man."

The implication of John's words caught Greg off guard. "Wait, are you saying you - _no_. I thought you'd only been on two dates!"

A couple at the bar glared at the two men and moved further away from the ruckus they were causing. John didn't seem to notice, but Greg shot them an apologetic look.

"So you're saying I don't love him? Why? Because I don't know him, know what he's like? Because I haven't been lusting over him for months now? Because I don't think about him every goddamn second..." John's voice broke suddenly and he dropped his head into his hands, shoulders trembling.

Greg was more than a little shocked to see John this way. Though the man had been a bit uneasy when he took Greg's first class, he was generally cheerful, sure of himself, and dedicated to his studies. Greg had never seen John so... broken.

Greg patted John on the back awkwardly as he surveyed his friend. "John... Are you..." What else could he do? He was crap at this sort of thing.

"Yeah," John said, voice slightly shaky. "I'll be okay. It's just hard. I just... keep thinking of how I sent him away. And Jim. The asshole."

"You think you did the right thing?" Greg asked quietly, placing his hands back on the bar, fingers tapping restlessly.

"Fuck. What right thing? There is no right thing. I'm an idiot, in love with an idiot, who kissed fucking Jim Moriarty... Why Jim, anyway? Is he still dating Molly?" John sat bolt upright, an expression of horror on his face. "Oh God, does she know? Should I tell her?"

Greg reached out and grabbed John's shoulders to steady him. "One thing at a time, John. Calm down."

"God, she must - would it be worse for her? Does she even know Jim is attracted to Sherlock?"

"She probably does. I don't even think they're dating anymore." He looked worriedly at his now-panicking friend. "Relax."

John shook his head vigorously. "Right. I'm fine. I'm okay. God, what time is it?"

"Time for you to go home, I think. Come on, up you go." Once he'd settled the tab, Greg hoisted John to his feet and helped him limp along on his good leg. Drunkenness notwithstanding, John was still fairly coordinated, and it didn't take too long for them to stumble into the parking lot.

Greg shoved John in the passenger seat of his car.

"Hey, wait a minute," John protested, slurring his words a little. "You've been drinking, too."

Greg rolled his eyes. "I had one beer three hours ago, John. I've been drinking ginger ale. Or were you too drunk to notice?"

John just snorted. "That's silly, Greg. I don't even like ginger ale."

Greg rolled his eyes again as he pulled out of the parking lot. John was not going to be happy when he woke up the next morning.


	13. Evaluation Strategy

_**Chapter 13: Evaluation Strategy**_

"Oh, for the sake of - not _another _one!"

Sherlock threw the slide in his hand at the wall of his room, where it shattered with a satisfying smash.

He breathed in through his nose a few times. That was the third slide in the past twenty-three minutes that he'd managed to contaminate unthinkingly. He'd kept going into autopilot in the middle of recording the results of his light sensitive bacterial samples. The first one he'd exposed to the fluorescent lights of his room; the second slide he'd accidentally knocked to the ground; and the third he'd touched without sterilising his hands.

Fine. He would do some biology homework, instead. There was no point in ruining another experiment.

Seven minutes in, he threw his book across the room in frustration. The current chapter was on genetics, and he kept thinking of his research paper with John on programming with DNA. It seemed that after every paragraph Sherlock read, he came up with a new question for John.

After his disastrous attempt at an apology earlier that afternoon, Sherlock had wandered about more or less in a daze. After his four o'clock class - which he remembered precisely none of - he returned to his dormitory. But he seemed to be incapable of performing even the most trivial tasks.

His gaze drifted over to the window sill and lingered on the dark curve of his violin case. Short of a chemical solution, playing the violin was the best method Sherlock had to focus - or in this case, to stop thinking about John.

He unlatched the case and lifted the lid slowly, running his fingers reverently over the smooth wood. With a fluid movement, he removed his violin from the case and opened the pocket containing his shoulder rest. He slipped it on his violin, then drew out his bow, smoothing it over the cake of rosin.

He settled the violin under his chin, drawing the bow across the strings with a whisper, making sure it was still in tune. Sherlock's eyes fell shut as he lost himself in the dynamic changes of Beethoven's Violin Concerto.

He was happy for a time; lost in movement and music, before a sharp rap sounded on his door.

He ignored it.

The rap sounded once more, followed by someone speaking, the sound muffled by the door. "Can you turn down the music? People are trying to study. Even though it's not quiet hours, you still need to be courteous."

It took several moments for Sherlock to process. It felt like being woken from a pleasant dream. Irritating.

Sherlock wrenched the door open, and the building's Resident Assistant blinked stupidly back at him. "I don't see how this is any worse than the infernal music others play."

The idiot gawped at Sherlock's violin. "Whoah, you're actually playing an instrument."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Amazing."

The RA smiled cheerfully. "Wait, what?" he asked.

"Amazing impression of an idiot. _Of course_ I'm playing an instrument; I'm holding it, am I not?"

The smile quickly morphed into a grimace. "Well, I've been getting complaints, so keep it down."

"I can't _keep it down_," Sherlock barked. "It's not as if there's a knob to lower the volume."

"Well, stop playing, then!" the older student grumbled. "This is your first warning. Do it again and you'll have to go in front of the student board!"

Sherlock slammed the door in his face. He was momentarily appeased by the RA's horrified expression, but Sherlock groaned as soon as he remembered that his only source of distraction had just been taken away. He was tempted to continue playing regardless, but Mycroft would most likely kick up a fuss if the campus police were brought in. He had been rather put out last time, after all.

Sherlock frantically tried to think of alternatives as he secured his violin in its case. He needed to _do_ something, not just sit and stew in his misery.

He would go on a walk, he decided. Perhaps he could go over to campus and deduce the embarrassing secrets of the sorority girls. He grabbed his coat and scarf and practically flew down the stairs.

He was unconcerned about being harassed by less savoury characters. Boulder was not known for its crime, unlike London. More's the pity. Besides, his overcoat was intimidating enough to allow him to pass undisturbed. Sherlock rather enjoyed wandering the streets after dark, and, being early March, the sun had just dipped below the horizon, treating him to the sight of bright orange clouds hovering over the mountains as he paced towards campus.

As he wandered through the parking lot of the pub across the street from the Williams Village dormitories, he caught sight of a familiar vehicle. That was Lestrade's car, wasn't it? He walked over curiously and identified the dent on Lestrade's bonnet from when Sherlock had lobbed that test tube last May.

If Lestrade were here... Then maybe he would talk to Sherlock. Other than John, Lestrade was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend, and Sherlock could use a friend right about now. He could just as easily be here with Donovan or Anderson, though. He could text Lestrade... but it might be better to "accidentally" bump into him. After ensuring that his friends were out of earshot, of course.

Sherlock entered the bar cautiously. They didn't require everyone entering to be of drinking age, since they also sold burgers and chips to the university crowd. He was mostly ignored as he slunk upstairs, checking Lestrade's normal seat up by the pool table. No luck. He'd have to check the bar.

He was coming down the stairs when he registered a familiar voice, and froze mid-step.

_John._

Some drunken idiot behind him ran into him and grumbled about morons stopping in the middle of the stairs and being a fire hazard. Sherlock glared fiercely at his retreating back before flattening himself against the railing.

"...so fucked up. He got beaten up..." John's voice faded out and Sherlock crept closer to the railing. John and Lestrade were sitting at the bar, their backs to the staircase, and it looked like John was on his fifth or sixth beer.

"How long do you think they..." Sherlock craned his neck to try to get a better view of John. His shoulders were hunched, and Lestrade was rubbing the back of his neck like he did when Sherlock said something particularly tactless. Lestrade mumbled something in response, but Sherlock couldn't make it out. He kept hearing snatches of conversation and the incomplete picture was maddening.

"...been going on for months, how would I know?" John added, taking another drink.

Of _course_ they were talking about Sherlock. About how Sherlock had betrayed John, and had obviously been doing it this whole time, since he was such an uncaring bastard...

Sherlock grimaced. Why would John have any reason to trust him? Sherlock hadn't been exactly forthcoming with the extent of his feelings for John. But it should have been _obvious_! Sherlock grit his teeth in frustration even as he sucked in a deep breath. There was no point in getting worked up about it now.

He strained to pick out John's voice over the general murmurs of the bar.

"...screamed at him..." John said, fading out once more. "Fuck. What am I doing?"

Sherlock had to get closer... maybe if he just went to the booth tucked in the corner downstairs he could listen to the conversation without being seen...

"How the hell would I know?" Lestrade sounded angry. Apparently he'd been dealing with John for some time now, and his patience was running out. Sherlock felt a vindictive rush of satisfaction that Sherlock wasn't the only one to wear on the man's nerves.

He could no longer see Lestrade any more, as he was attempting to descend the stairs unseen, but he was alarmed when he heard Lestrade swearing rather loudly.

"How is it so different? You love Jenny; it would hurt like hell to find her kissing another man."

"Wait, are you saying you - _no_. I thought you'd only been on two dates!"

Oh. _Oh._ Did John just...

"So you're saying I don't love him? Why? Because I don't know him, know what he's like? Because I haven't been lusting over him for months now? Because I don't think about him every goddamn second..."

The rest of the conversation dissolved into white noise as Sherlock's knees gave out and he sat heavily on the stairs. John was... John... Did he really just say that? That he loved...

And, oh, God. It would explain why this hurt so much.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?" a young woman asked, peering down at him with worried eyes.

Sherlock just stared at her. John could _not_ see him here. He shook his head frantically and scrambled to his feet, darting up the stairs as quickly as possible. Oh God, what was he thinking? What was he doing? He should never have come looking for Lestrade.

When he finally got upstairs, out of sight of the bar, he tucked himself in a corner table and drew his knees up onto the seat, sucking in great breaths.

He had to fix this. But _how_?

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared blankly at the screen before typing out a message.

**_How much time do you need? -SH_**

He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep until a waitress was gently shooing him out of the seat. It was last call at the bar, and Sherlock blinked blearily at his mobile clock. 01:57 blinked cheerfully back at him, and there was still no reply from John.

He stumbled across the parking lot to the Will Vill tower, one of a herd of drunken university students, and crawled into bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes.

.x.x.x.x.x.

John stared blankly at his phone, struggling to think through the haze of his hangover-induced migraine.

**_How much time do you need? -SH_**

It was almost sweet, really, coming from Sherlock; undemanding, direct, and focused on John.

He didn't know what to say.

**_How the fuck should I know_**  
_**Deduce it**_  
_**You bastard**_  
_**I miss you**_  
_**Just call me, you idiot**_

But what he ended up sending was just this:

**_We'll talk on Monday, after class. JW_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

John blinked sleep out of his eyes as he stared at his blaring alarm clock on Monday morning. No matter which side he got out of bed today, he was fairly sure it would be the wrong one.

There was no way John could survive class today. The thought of being confronted by both Jim and Sherlock made his stomach roil. He scrabbled on his nightstand for his cell phone.

**_Can you handle class by yourself today? I don't think I can come. JW_**

He was halfway through his bowl of shredded wheat when his phone buzzed with Greg's reply.

_**Yeah, I'll be fine. Take a couple days. I don't blame you.**_

John let out a shaky breath as relief and guilt washed through him in equal measure. He felt he was choosing the coward's way out, and it didn't sit right with him. But if he did come to class, he'd be doing his students a disservice. He had been bad enough at lectures last semester when distracted by his burgeoning attraction to his student. How much worse would it be with Jim there to remind John of Sherlock's betrayal?

Besides, the class would be in perfectly capable hands. If he were being honest with himself, he knew that when Greg asked John to co-teach the class, it wasn't for Greg's benefit. Greg would have been fine teaching the class by himself.

When he arrived at campus, though, he was still feeling guilty, so he took his morning tea up to his office and locked the door. He sent another message to Greg.

**_I'm here if you absolutely need me. JW_**

**_Don't worry about it. You should have slept in._**

**_Couldn't sleep. JW_**

John spent a few minutes organizing his desk before admitting to the futility of the situation, and just started up a favorite Star Trek episode on Hulu. Before he knew it, the hour had passed, and his phone was buzzing in his pocket.

**_Sherlock missed class today, btw. Guess he wasn't too excited about seeing you, either._**

**_He's meeting me in my office in a few minutes, so I hope that wasn't the reason. JW_**

_**Maybe he was avoiding Jim, then.**_

John didn't want to admit how much that idea pleased him.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock vaguely wondered if he was going to get sick all over the floor outside John's office. His stomach was torturing itself into intricate knots.

He took a deep breath and knocked briskly on the closed door. He was just about to repeat the knock, when it swung open. John stood just inside, with his hand on the door handle, peering at Sherlock with a guarded, and somewhat pained, expression.

"I'm so sorry, John, I really am," Sherlock blurted. "It didn't mean anything; we'd only even been in the room for a few minutes, he-"

John blinked in surprise, obviously not expecting a panicked apology before Sherlock had even gotten inside.

"Sherlock, can we not do this outside, please?" he pleaded in a low hiss as he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and steered him inside and onto the sofa.

Sherlock sat silent for a moment, trying to figure out how to resume his apology, as John turned to close the door, before leaning back against his desk, brow furrowed expectantly. John had interrupted him and now Sherlock was having trouble remembering what he'd been planning to say. It was extremely irritating.

"It wasn't as bad as it looked." No, that wasn't right, at all.

"You kissed him, Sherlock! That is so far beyond okay, that's..." John fell silent, rubbing his temples.

"God, I'm sorry, John! You have no idea how many times I've wished I could just do it all over again. To never have gone into that classroom with him. You have to believe me. I never wanted..." Sherlock trailed off. Why was this so _difficult_?

"It's fine, Sherlock." John was scowling, irritated, and clearly it wasn't fine at all. "This wasn't... You need to respect the person you're dating. You... respect Jim, at least. He's better for you, anyway. You should be with someone closer to your age, your intelligence... Someone you can actually talk to." John was looking away from Sherlock now, still grimacing, but his arms were crossed over his chest, and his shoulders were drawn into himself defensively. Sherlock felt like he was drowning. He struggled to breathe.

"I don't want that! I don't want him! I want _you_! I've always wanted you!" Sherlock realized he was panicking now, his voice an octave higher than normal.

"Sherlock, sometimes that's not enough." John blew out an angry breath, but his tight-lipped frown softened and his eyebrows shifted upward into an expression of defeat. "I'm not right for you, anyway. We... don't have much in common, to be honest. And I'm older, and you're... you're _so_ young, Sherlock. You'd probably be happier with Jim."

"But I'm not in love with _Jim_!" Sherlock snapped.

John froze, his mouth open in shock.

Sherlock's eyes widened in horror as he realized what he'd just said. He leapt up from the sofa and backed further into the corner, away from John. "Oh. _Oh._ Forget I said - I didn't... Look, you - you probably need some space. I should go."

"Sherlock, you're not escaping that easily. Sit. Explain." John scowled, but Sherlock remained standing. It would be easier to make a run for it if he were on his feet.

"There's nothing to explain!" Sherlock shouted, verging on panic.

John said nothing, just stepped forward and studied Sherlock, his eyes slipping over every part of him, lingering on his hands, his eyes, his mouth. He was searching for something, but Sherlock didn't know what.

Sherlock couldn't stand the silence any more. "I... I love you. I'm sorry." He fidgeted nervously. Why wasn't John saying anything? _Please, say something. Anything. Did I hear you wrong? Was I just imagining...?_

"Oh my God," John breathed, disbelieving.

_Right. Well, that was a spectacular failure._ Sherlock tried to back-pedal. "I'm sorry, just forget it, it's fine, we can start over again, go back to being friends, or just student and teacher, I just don't-"

And then John was hugging him close, arms wrapped tightly around him, fingers clutching at Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock could feel that John's cheek was wet when it touched his own. John was crying.

Then Sherlock was on his knees, and so was John, and he couldn't remember how they'd gotten that way, but it didn't matter, because this was John; he was with John, and nothing else mattered.

And John was just holding him, rocking back and forth, and whispering, "Shh, it's okay. I love you too." Sherlock was distantly aware that someone was babbling incoherently and realized with a jolt that it was him. He shut his mouth with a click and clung tightly to John.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Ten minutes after they had dropped onto the floor, Sherlock was still holding John in a death grip, but, to John's relief, the hysteric edge had disappeared. John continued to kneel awkwardly, holding Sherlock, but he felt like an observer, only distantly aware of what was happening.

John was still numb. It was too much to take in. The roller coaster of highs and lows of being with Sherlock was something he hadn't even known he needed, and the fact that he enjoyed the excitement didn't make it any less draining. The exhilaration of his date with Sherlock, of finally being allowed to touch what he'd spent so many months dreaming about, had been quickly tempered by the fight the following Tuesday and the nagging doubts that had blossomed over the course of the week.

And the kiss. As soon as John realized what had happened, it was like his brain had shut down. He hadn't even seen it happen, and yet... Every time he closed his eyes, his traitorous mind supplied images of Jim, smiling lasciviously, with his hands running over Sherlock's body, writhing and arching beneath him... It was too much, and so John had stopped trying to think at all.

But... Sherlock had said he loved him, and John's body reached for him automatically, to comfort and protect him, and in so doing, exposed himself.

Now he felt like he was somewhere outside himself, witnessing the strange scene of a lost-looking man holding a panicked teenager, who just kept murmuring apologies.

Eventually Sherlock's grip eased, and John started to withdraw, but Sherlock leaned forward and followed him.

"Please..."

"What?"

The perturbed tone in John's voice must have been more apparent than he thought, because Sherlock immediately withdrew, sitting back on his heels.

Sherlock studied John's face carefully.

John didn't want to look at Sherlock right now - he didn't want to see those grey eyes boring into his soul. He turned and looked at the couch, absently counting the threadbare spots and stains. They said nothing for a few minutes, just looking in silence, Sherlock at John, and John at anything but Sherlock.

Suddenly, Sherlock was leaning forward, reaching for John, and John flinched and held his hand out defensively.

"I can't do this right now."

"Can't do what?" Sherlock was frowning, but he didn't look distressed any longer - more like disgruntled.

"This..." He gestured helplessly. "I can't kiss you. I can't touch you. I just keep seeing him, over and over in my head, on instant playback."

Sherlock looked at John, disbelief and confusion etched into his features. "I don't... Why did you hold me, then?"

John just shook his head, unable to articulate the emotions squeezing his heart tight in his chest.

"John..." Sherlock started hesitantly, but he didn't reach for him again.

"You cheated on me, Sherlock! Even you can't - you know how much that hurt-" he swallowed, not willing to say the next word. "How much it hurts someone. Don't you?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "Yes. I do. I mean," he stuttered, "I don't know, not really, but I can guess. Deduce."

John breathed deep, trying to maintain his calm.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock added.

"Stop apologizing."

"What else can I do, John?"

_Leave me alone._

"I need... space, Sherlock. And time. We can talk about this, more, just not… Not right now. I - I can't forgive you, not yet, but... We'll talk about it, okay? Eventually."

"I meant what I said, John. I..."

"It's fine. I just - I need to be alone right now." Or at least, away from Sherlock.

John sighed and slowly got to his feet. After a moment's hesitation, he extended a hand to Sherlock, who was still kneeling.

Sherlock took the proffered hand and released it reluctantly on standing. "Well. Will you - call? When you..."

John nodded. "Yeah." He stared at Sherlock for a moment before adding, "I do care about you, you know. Idiot."

Sherlock looked torn between guilt and relief, but it didn't last long before a carefully blank mask settled over his features.

Sherlock nodded briskly, once, before turning and marching out of the office, taking care not to let the door slam behind him.


	14. Pointers

_**Author's Note**_

Good morning, lovelies! I'm happy to report that this fic is no longer a WIP - I have written the final chapter and epilogue. :) The story should be completely posted by 12/12/12.

Your comments always make my day. Thanks so much for reading!

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**Chapter 14: Pointers**_

"Where have you been?"

Greg sighed as he pulled the front door closed and slid the deadbolt into place. "I needed to take John home. He couldn't drive." Greg could feel Jenny's eyes on his back and he turned around slowly, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

Jenny looked as angry as he'd expected. "And how many beers did _you_ have?" she asked, tone frigid.

Greg stormed past her to the hall closet, which he yanked open one handed, shrugging out of his jacket simultaneously. She turned to stare at him, arms crossed defensively over her chest, back tense and straight as she leveled an icy glare at him.

He didn't say anything, just put his jacket on a coat hanger and closing the closet door softly, deliberately. He didn't turn to face his wife straight away, just stood with his door on the knob breathing in deeply.

"I can't believe you didn't call! You should at least have let me know you were out getting drunk!"

Greg whirled around, sharp words on the tip of his tongue, but the look on Jenny's face stopped him. "John needed a friend. I wasn't _getting drunk_."

Jenny laughed bitterly, her mouth twisted in an all-too-familiar grimace. "Right. Not that you bothered to tell me any of this. Thanks for that."

Greg ground his teeth in frustration, and Jenny's face fell.

"Greg..." Jenny ventured, her voice cracking.

"John's boyfriend was cheating on him."

Jenny seemed, at last, shocked into silence. Greg sneaked a glance over. Jenny's brow was furrowed, her lips drawn in a faint pout, her eyes guarded.

"I didn't... I didn't say anything. I mean, I did, but not about us."

Jenny tore her eyes away, focusing instead on the painting on the wall. It was a still life they had bought together; a realistic oil painting of a lemon pierced by an arrow that they had found strangely appealing. It was one of the few pieces of art they'd both liked.

"I'm sorry, Greg."

"No, you're not. Not really."

Jenny was angry now. "Look, how many times do I have to say it? It was a mistake. I was stupid and reckless, and yes, I hurt you, but I'm here now, aren't I? What more do you _want_ from me?" She stared at Greg for a few minutes, as he struggled to articulate his discomfort, before giving up, shaking her head violently and throwing her arms to the ceiling. "This is ridiculous! I'll be upstairs if you want me, I'm not just going to stand here!"

She'd run up the stairs and their bedroom door slammed shut with a bang. Greg could have sworn he felt the vibration run up his legs.

He slept on the couch. Again. But he couldn't shake John out of his head.

_"What would you do, if it were Jenny?"_

Greg still didn't know.

.x.x.x.x.x.

**From:** Greg Lestrade  
**Sent:** Monday, March 4, 2013 1:57 PM  
**To:** Sherlock  
**Subject:** John

Do you want to talk about it?

Dr. Gregory Lestrade  
Dept. Chair, Computer Science  
Office 703, ECOT

**From:** Sherlock Holmes  
**Sent:** Monday, March 4, 2013 1:58 PM  
**To:** Lestrade  
**Subject:** No

Did my brother put you up to this?

SH

**From:** Greg Lestrade  
**Sent:** Monday, March 4, 2013 2:03 PM  
**To:** Sherlock  
**Subject:** Re: No

No. I'm worried about John. He seemed pretty upset.

Greg

**From:** Greg Lestrade  
**Sent:** Monday, March 4, 2013 2:49 PM  
**To:** Sherlock  
**Subject:** Re: No

I'm worried about you, too.

Greg

**From:** Sherlock Holmes  
**Sent:** Monday, March 4, 2013 2:49 PM  
**To:** Lestrade  
**Subject:** Stop

Don't. I'm not worth worrying about.

**From:** Greg Lestrade  
**Sent:** Monday, March 4, 2013 2:51 PM  
**To:** Sherlock  
**Subject:** Re: Stop

Come to my office. I don't have class until 4:00.

I have some cookies left from last time.

Greg

**From:** Sherlock Holmes  
**Sent:** Monday, March 4, 2013 3:03 PM  
**To:** Lestrade  
**Subject:** They're called biscuits

Fine. But only because you'll let them go stale otherwise.

SH

.x.x.x.x.x.

Greg was prepared by the time Sherlock arrived. Box of shortbread, open and sitting casually against the stuffed arm chair? Check. Paper towels unobtrusively set on the desk for crumb cleanup? Check. Bottle of aspirin and glass of water prepped for the inevitable headache Sherlock would bring on? Check.

Sherlock's knock was surprisingly tentative. At first Greg wasn't sure he'd heard anything at all.

"Come in."

The door swung open slowly and Greg was shocked at how different Sherlock looked from the boy who had left his classroom on Friday morning.

The first thing he noticed is that Sherlock wouldn't meet his gaze.

Sherlock had never been a _modest_ person, to Greg's knowledge. He was sure of himself, cocky, arrogant. Rightfully so. The boy was brilliant. He had created a robot in Greg's engineering projects course at the tender age of seventeen. For a high school dropout, Sherlock was the most brilliant person Greg had ever met. That spring Sherlock was wild and fierce. He was clearly still experiencing withdrawal from whatever crap he'd been taking before Mycroft had forced him into rehab, and he would lash out at a moment's notice. Almost anything could set him off: commenting on his appearance; telling him he'd said something inappropriate; even complimenting him would usually backfire. He treated every word as an attack on his person.

This had not endeared him to the rest of the faculty. Sally Donovan, in particular, had been on the receiving end of Sherlock's temper one too many times. She'd initially tried to reach out to him, but when it was made clear that Sherlock didn't want help, from her or anyone else, Donovan seemed to take personal offense at every word he spoke.

However, Mycroft had asked Greg to look after his little brother, and so Greg tolerated Sherlock's abrasive personality. Greg was initially surprised that Mycroft even _had_ a brother in the first place, but after meeting Sherlock, he could see the family resemblance - in personality, if nothing else.

The reason he got on with Sherlock was because Greg knew to treat him as an equal. Sherlock was smart, and deserved respect; he wouldn't abide being talked down to. Sherlock seemed to recognize this, and Greg had never been the object of his derision or his scathing analysis.

When Jenny had cheated on Greg last May, Sherlock had outed her. He'd just up and said, "Your wife is cheating on you."

Greg wasn't really sure how to respond, so he'd just started to drive away. Sherlock, however, wouldn't let him leave. He demanded Greg explain why he was angry, not with his wife, but with Sherlock. When Greg kept driving, Sherlock started throwing things at his car - some pencils, a test tube which shattered on the hood, and finally Sherlock himself as he tried to climb on top of Greg's car - until Greg was forced to stop, get out, and tell Sherlock exactly why he was so upset.

"You can't just say these things, even if they _are_ true! Maybe I didn't want to know!"

Sherlock had looked at Greg, despairing. "Why wouldn't you want to know? Isn't it kinder to tell you?"

Greg had pushed aside his own internal emotional storm cloud, taken Sherlock by the shoulders, and steered him back to the Engineering Center lobby. After buying coffees for himself and Sherlock, and taking the elevator back up to his office, he sat Sherlock down on the couch with his double espresso and tried to put into words what everyone else always assumed Sherlock should already know.

"Sometimes people don't want to know the truth. Sometimes they just want to pretend things are better than they really are. I've been suspicious for some time, yeah. But I didn't want to _know_. Now that I do, I have to do something about it. Do you see? Even though it would have been a lie, I would have been happier if I'd just ignored it."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he sipped his espresso. "I don't... Why wouldn't you want to know the truth?"

Greg shook his head. "Because the truth hurts, Sherlock. And sometimes we just want to avoid the pain."

Sherlock hadn't really understood, but he'd stopped pushing, and when Greg finally broke and confronted Jenny, Sherlock had seen Greg in the lobby the following day. He looked at Greg for a long moment before turning and walking away without a word.

Later that day, Sherlock had come to Greg's office hours, and though he never said as much, Greg could tell he was there because he felt responsible for the argument with Jenny. He'd brought coffee as a peace offering, and lingered in the doorway to attempt a rather painful few minutes of small talk, but he hadn't met Greg's gaze.

That was the last time Sherlock had refused to look Greg in the eye.

And he was doing it again now.

"Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock twitched as though startled. Greg had never seen him like this before. Sherlock was restless, uncomfortable, his shoulders hunched and his fingers constantly fidgeting, right foot tapping arrhythmically against the carpet. The bruise on his jaw was painfully obvious, and the bags under his eyes contributed to his haunted expression.

"You said you had biscuits."

Greg waved a hand toward the stuffed armchair in the corner. "Over there."

Sherlock tucked his legs under himself as he squatted in the chair, open cookie box balanced precariously on the chair's arm. His long fingers reached in to retrieve a broken piece of shortbread. He sat staring at it for a few moments before taking a small nibble.

Greg always thought Sherlock looked like a bird of prey, hunched in the chair like that as he pierced his teacher with wary eyes. But today he just looked like an exhausted, fragile teenager.

"Did you want to talk about what happened?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, still staring at the cookie in his hand. He finally swallowed, slowly, before saying, "No."

"Didn't think so."

"Do..."

Greg just looked at Sherlock and waited.

"Do you think he'll ever forgive me?"

"Yes." The response was immediate and Sherlock's eyes widened minutely in apparent disbelief.

"What?"

"Yes, I think he will. But he's still hurt by you. And it's going to take time."

Sherlock clenched his fist, and the cookie he held dissolved into crumbs. "_Time._" His mouth twisted bitterly as he absently wiped the shortbread crumbs off his lap with his free hand.

"He does care about you, and he'll probably forgive you. But are you just going to hurt him again?"

Sherlock's eyes refocused as though he'd just remembered Greg was still in the room. "Of course I am. How can I not?"

Greg grimaced. "I mean... are you going to cheat on him again?"

"I didn't cheat in the first place!"

Greg tried his best not to let the spike of anger show on his face, but it was nearly impossible to hide anything from Sherlock.

"Jim was the one who kissed _me_. I didn't..." Sherlock ran his hands through messy hair, and Greg absently noted that a few pale crumbs were now clinging to the dark strands. "It didn't mean anything. To _me_. But it does to John. I can't. I can't fix it." He turned wide eyes on Greg, his hands balling into fists on the arms of the chair, and his shoulders tensing. "How do I _fix_ it?"

"It's not something that gets fixed, Sherlock. It was a mistake. You hurt John. If you really want to keep him... You apologize, and move on."

"But I've tried apologizing..."

Greg shook his head. "Do it again. As many times as it takes." He hesitated a moment before asking the question that had been nagging at him for months now. "Would you rather be with Jim?"

Sherlock's head jerked towards Greg's, an expression of horror on his face. "No! Why- just no. I don't want Jim at all. I want John. I just wish..."

"Yes?"

"I just wish John wanted me back." Sherlock was studying the floor as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Greg rose and walked over to the chair. He placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "He does."

Sherlock scowled.

"Just shut up and eat your cookies."

"I didn't say anything," Sherlock snapped, but the edges of his mouth had tweaked up into a faintly amused grin.

Greg ruffled Sherlock's hair absentmindedly, which earned him a small huff of annoyance, before turning and walking back to his desk. "So, I heard you were working on an abstract for the biological computing conference. How's it going so far?"

Sherlock flashed a brief smile. "Fine. I've been a bit distracted, of late. But I've found some rather fascinating journal articles..."

.x.x.x.x.x.

The next morning, as John sat alone in his office for his Tuesday office hours, he couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. He was still angry. But he missed Sherlock, and he couldn't shake that last look Sherlock had given him when he'd asked John to call him. It had been a mix of hope, fear, and something else. Longing, perhaps.

_Fine,_ he decided, _I'll just get this over with, then._

**_If you want to stop by my office, you can. JW_**

John tapped his fingers nervously against his desk. He had no idea if Sherlock would even respond. He needn't have worried. Less than fifteen seconds later, John's phone buzzed to signal an incoming text.

Had Sherlock been staring at his phone, waiting for John to text him?

**_I'll be there in ten minutes. -SH_**

John was fidgeting nervously, staring blankly at his laptop screen, when the door creaked open cautiously.

Sherlock was shifting on the balls of his feet, hands twisting in his trouser pockets. His hair was fluffed up lopsidedly, as though he'd slept at an odd angle and hadn't bothered to comb it before rushing out of his room. In fact, Sherlock looked a complete mess. There were bags under his eyes, the bruise on his jaw was turning an ugly yellow-green, and his normally rigid posture had dissolved into an uneasy slouch.

"Hello," he finally said.

"Hi," John replied.

An awkward silence filled the room.

"So..." John ventured.

"Yes."

"Right," John replied, relief washing through him. Knowing that Sherlock was just as uncomfortable as John was somehow made him feel better. It didn't hurt that the man had confessed his feelings for John the day prior.

"Can I apologize yet?" Sherlock asked, only half-joking.

John rolled his eyes and flashed a somewhat shaky smile. "I suppose."

Sherlock smiled, genuinely this time, but still fearful, as though John was a wild animal that Sherlock didn't want to startle. John certainly felt wild.

"So. You said you wanted to explain?" John prompted, when he realized that Sherlock was still waiting for something.

"Yes. I... I went to the classroom with Jim willingly, John. For that I am certainly culpable, and I am sorry. But I did not initiate the kiss."

Sherlock was frowning now, lost in his thoughts. "I know I should have pushed him away..." Sherlock looked about as miserable as John had ever seen him.

John's forehead creased in puzzlement. "What exactly happened?"

Sherlock looked on the edge of panic as he blurted out his response. "I know I shouldn't have gone to the room alone with him, but - he was just so - I just wanted someone to want me. _You_ don't want me..."

"What?" Something twisted painfully inside John's chest.

Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably. "Well, you don't want to be seen with me in public, and I can't kiss you in private. I mean, it's fine, I understand why you're ashamed of me, but-"

"Ashamed? Oh God. I'm not ashamed of you, Sherlock."

"Then why..."

John blinked stupidly for a moment before realizing with a jolt what Sherlock needed to hear. "Because I'm an idiot," John said firmly.

Sherlock's eyes widened and it looked like he was trying to bite back a laugh.

"So, what are we to each other, exactly?" John asked. "What am I? Your partner? Teacher? Mentor? Friend?" He paused, lips quirking upward in a faint smile. "Boyfriend?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up at the last one. "Boyfriend. I like that."

John grinned back at Sherlock. "Right then. No more of this nonsense about not being seen in public. You're my boyfriend. And I'm not ashamed of you. Got it?"

Sherlock was smiling now, looking up at John with eyes half lidded. He nodded once, sharply. "So can I kiss you now?"

John winced. He pictured Jim, smirking as he caressed Sherlock. "Not - not yet. I'm sorry. It's just that I need more time."

Sherlock's face fell, but he covered the expression quickly and turned to leave.

John jumped out of his chair and grasped Sherlock's wrist. "Wait!"

He pulled Sherlock into an embrace, and some of the tension drained from the younger man's body.

"Hugs are good," John said quickly, when he finally pulled back. "Let's stick with those for now."

"Yes. Good." Sherlock smiled awkwardly and pulled John into a second embrace, only reluctantly letting him go when John started to pull away again.

John twined his fingers in Sherlock's and turned to the office door. "Tea?" He hoped the significance of his hand in Sherlock's would be clear.

"That sounds lovely," Sherlock breathed.

They walked down to the lobby together, hands entwined. John hardly noticed that they'd used the stairs instead of the elevator until he found himself pushing open the stairwell door onto the first floor landing. A few students gave them curious looks as they walked over to the Celestial Seasonings shop, but in general they were ignored. The tension had started leaving John's body when he heard someone calling out his name.

"John! Hey!" Molly came running up. "How's it going?" She was all smiles.

John felt Sherlock start to pull away, so he gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and held fast. "It's going okay. How about yourself?"

Molly smiled. "It's going well. I've started on a research paper with Greg. We'll be thesis adviser siblings!"

John smiled. "That's wonderful! Greg is great to work with."

Sherlock forcefully untangled his fingers from John's. "I'll get your cambric, if you two want to chat." He hesitated a beat before asking, "Did you want anything, Molly?"

"Oh! No, I'm fine, thank you though!" She smiled sunnily at Sherlock.

It had been a while since John had last talked to Molly. Molly and Jim were working for Anderson and Donovan this semester, respectively. He and Greg hadn't needed any TA's for their biocomputing class, since it was so small, but John missed the additional interaction with the graduate students. Molly had been a pleasure to work with. Jim had always been polite and friendly, and he was certainly competent - though, considering the circumstances, John would be happy to never work with the man again.

John fidgeted uncomfortably as Sherlock stalked off. "So, are you and Jim still..." He waved one hand about vaguely.

"What? Oh! Dating? No, we... Broke it off. A couple months ago, actually. I thought you would have heard by now," she mused, smiling ruefully. "The rumor mill is pretty active in our department."

"Yeah." The burst of panic that had lodged in his chest on first seeing Molly started to dissolve. "Sorry to hear that."

Molly shrugged lightly, but she looked slightly tense. "Thanks, I guess. I think we were looking for different things." She suddenly glanced over at Sherlock. "Or the same thing," she corrected, coughing nervously.

Ah. "Sherlock, you mean."

"What!" Molly was bright red. "No! I just meant... men. Not Sherlock in particular."

John snorted. "Right," he uttered sarcastically. His eyes were drawn to Sherlock as he paid for his and John's tea.

"I'm not blind, you know," Molly blurted, apropos of nothing.

"What?" John jerked his gaze away from Sherlock and raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"I know I don't have a chance with Sherlock." She picked at some invisible lint on her blouse. "Not with the way he looks at you."

John would have been happy under different circumstances. Instead, all he could think was, _That didn't stop Jim. In fact, it probably encouraged him._ The thought made John's stomach roil.

John sighed heavily and gave Molly a weak smile. "Thanks, I guess."

Molly steeled herself as she plowed forward. "I just... I thought you should know because... It's probably harder for you to see it, because maybe you think he looks like that all the time," she uttered in a single, rushed breath. "But he doesn't. Not for anyone else."

_Except Jim,_ John thought bitterly, before realizing he must have said it aloud, thanks to Molly's shocked expression.

"He doesn't... He doesn't look like that around Jim, either. Did you think - is everything okay?" She peered at him with worried eyes.

John was grateful to see Sherlock stalking up, coffee cups in hand. "Everything's fine," he said lightly, nodding in Sherlock's direction. "Looks like I'd best be off. Tell Greg hi for me when you see him."

Molly's forehead crinkled, but she nodded. "Okay, I will. See you later, John. Sherlock."

Sherlock wordlessly handed John his Earl Grey cambric as they walked across the engineering lobby carpet. Sherlock still seemed tense, and John thought of grabbing his hand again, but Sherlock was gripping his coffee tightly. After a moment's hesitation, John slung his arm across Sherlock's shoulders. It wasn't quite the same as shouting _I love this man_ to the students milling about in the lobby, but it was a step in the right direction. Sherlock glanced over at John, startled, before smiling crookedly and relaxing as they walked in step.

"Want to drink outside?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded absently. "Yes. I'd enjoy that." He smiled wryly at John, and John thought back to what Molly had said earlier. This smile was just for John.


	15. Arguments

_**Chapter 15: Arguments**_

Sherlock decided to attend Wednesday's class. He couldn't hide from Jim and Sebastian forever, and at least he was once again on speaking terms with John. They'd spent the previous afternoon in amiable, if somewhat tense, silence, and when Sherlock had tried to apologise once more, John had given him a pointed look, and that was that. Sherlock had never been a patient man, but he supposed that for John, he'd have to be.

He strolled into the classroom an extra five minutes early and took his normal seat near the front. He was just starting to relax when a familiar form slid into the seat next to him.

"Sherlock, look, about Friday..."

Sherlock took a deep breath and pointedly ignored the man beside him.

"I hope you didn't skip Monday's class on my account, is all. I know we didn't part on the best of terms, but, it's not like anything..." Jim trailed off uneasily. "Nothing's wrong, is it?"

At this, Sherlock couldn't hold back his reaction any longer. He turned to Jim, eyes full of venom, and hissed, "You kissed me, Jim. I have to say, my boyfriend's rather upset about that. If you don't mind, I'd like you to stay the hell away from me."

Jim grimaced. "Oh, your _boyfriend's_ upset? Suddenly that means something, does it?"

"Yes. It does. Now kindly remove yourself from my immediate vicinity," Sherlock spat. "Contrary to popular opinion, I am here to learn something, not to amuse you." Heart pounding, Sherlock resolutely faced forward. He could see Jim frowning from the corner of his eye.

"Fine," Jim snapped, his voice low and dangerous, and Sherlock resisted the urge to shudder. Then Jim was gone from Sherlock's peripheral vision, and Sherlock was careful to only look straight ahead.

When John came in, Sherlock saw him drop off his computer at the front desk table before casually sauntering to the rear of the classroom, where Sherlock knew Jim was sitting.

"Jim, can I have a word after class?" John's tone was pleasant, but Sherlock could detect a threatening undertone.

"Of course, Dr. Watson," came the tense reply. Sherlock almost felt sorry for Jim. Almost.

.x.x.x.x.x.

After class, John waited, very pointedly, for Sherlock to pack up his things and leave before striding up to Jim.

"Do you have class after this?" John asked, trying to keep his voice even and non-threatening.

"No, not for another hour. Do you expect this to take long?" Jim raised an eyebrow, but there was a tension in his shoulders that hinted at his nervousness.

John shook his head. "No, this shouldn't take too long. I just didn't want to keep you if you have somewhere you need to be."

"How conscientious of you." Jim said brusquely, eyes narrowed.

"Thanks," John replied tersely. He might as well cut to the chase. "I'd like you to stay away from Sherlock."

Jim smiled bitterly at this, his eyes flaring open. "Is that a threat, professor?"

"No! Look, I'm not threatening you or saying-"

"And what will you do if I choose not to?" Jim interrupted, leaning towards John. His eyes were bright and angry.

John glowered. "Well, I'll be pretty pissed, for one. But more than that, I think that it would bother Sherlock."

Jim flinched back against the desk behind him. "Look, I made a mistake, alright? I thought..."

John struggled to keep calm. "Thought what? That pushing yourself on him would be a good idea?"

Jim's expression shuttered, his mouth set in a thin line. "Is that what he told you? Because he seemed to want it at the time. He's been leading me on for weeks." His voice was soft, neutral, void of emotion - but his eyes were cold.

John fought to maintain his composure. Sherlock had been leading _Jim_ on? John took a few deep breaths to steady himself, eyes locked on Jim's. "I... It doesn't matter. I'm just asking you to give him some space."

"And will you be docking me points if I don't?"

"What? No! I…" John realized where Jim was going with this, and his eyes narrowed. "This is not me, as your teacher. This is me, as... Sherlock's boyfriend. The man whose boyfriend you kissed. So just back off." His voice was coming out in a lower growl than he'd intended.

He cleared his throat and took a step back. How had he gotten that close to Jim in the first place? "I'm not going to be grading your assignments from now on. Thankfully, there are two teachers for this class."

"And I'm sure that Dr. Lestrade is also completely unbiased, considering as how he's a close friend of both you and Sherlock," Jim muttered, grimacing.

John gaped. "If… if you're concerned, we can have a third party grade your assignments."

Jim grit his teeth but refused to look at John. "Yes, and I'm sure Mycroft Holmes would be happy to designate someone to do my grading."

"Look, not everyone is out to get you!" John retorted.

Jim merely sighed and smiled grimly at John. "That's very comforting. If you don't mind, I should be going. I have to prepare for class."

John just blinked as Jim slunk out of the classroom.

.x.x.x.x.x.

On Thursday morning, John looked up from his desk when he heard a tentative knock. Sherlock entered, closing the door behind him, and walked over to the couch. He sat down stiffly, his back rigid.

John smiled and returned to his email.

After about fifteen minutes (13, actually, not that John was counting) Sherlock stood up and walked over to John, nervously shifting from one foot to another.

"Do you want something?" John asked, when Sherlock remained silent.

"Erm, yes..." he started, but trailed off. He was having trouble meeting John's eye for some reason.

John lifted an eyebrow pointedly.

Sherlock still didn't say anything, awkwardly twisting his hands.

John wondered what could be making Sherlock so nervous. Hopefully he didn't want to kiss him again. John had tried to make it clear that he wasn't ready for that yet. But, no, Sherlock wasn't even initiating any kind of physical contact. Did he feel he needed permission to touch John at all?

John smiled fondly at his idiot of a boyfriend.

"Come here," he said, gesturing.

When Sherlock didn't get the hint, simply staring at John in confusion, John grasped his wrist and pulled him down until he was sitting sideways on John's lap, John's arms encircling his waist.

"There. That's better," John remarked with a grin.

Sherlock merely harrumphed in displeasure, but his arms snaked around John's shoulders, and he held him close. John shifted so he could see the laptop screen around Sherlock and, with the student still in his embrace, placed his hands on the keyboard to resume typing an email to Greg about his most recent journal submission.

"You're very silly sometimes, you know that?" John murmured softly.

"Hmph," Sherlock replied, but he didn't loosen his hold.

They spent a long time in silence as John typed, half expecting Sherlock to demand to be released. But Sherlock merely shifted until he was curled up against John, his arms still encircling him. He would almost have thought Sherlock was asleep if it weren't for the occasional huff of breath or fidgety shift on John's lap. John felt uncomfortable pins and needles in his legs whenever Sherlock shifted, but he didn't want Sherlock to think he didn't want him there, so John just flexed his muscles slowly at intervals to keep up blood flow as best he could.

Sherlock's fingers started tracing idle patterns through John's shirt, and John tried very hard not to let the feather light touches affect him. For one thing, any reaction would be noticed very quickly by Sherlock, considering his current proximity. Eventually the touches stopped, and John let out an involuntary sigh - of relief or disappointment, he wasn't really sure.

"I'm bored," Sherlock whined, the sound slightly muffled by John's shoulder.

Honestly, John was surprised Sherlock lasted as long as he had.

"Well, you have been doing nothing but sitting for the past," he checked his computer clock, "hour and a half."

"97 minutes," Sherlock corrected imperiously.

"Right," John said, fond exasperation apparent in his voice. "Do you want to get up?"

Sherlock buried his face in John's neck and held him even tighter.

"Well, I'm starting to get hungry, so..." He nudged at Sherlock, but the younger man merely squirmed closer. "Get off me, you dork," John commanded good-naturedly.

Sherlock pouted, his lower lip protruding slightly, and John reflected that he had never seen a pout look so appealing.

"Come on, Sherlock, my legs are asleep. Do you want to get lunch?"

Sherlock's pout deepened, but he slid off John's lap gracefully.

"Together?" John added as an afterthought. He was pleased when Sherlock's expression brightened considerably.

"That would be... nice," Sherlock said awkwardly.

John thought back to their conversation two weeks ago (had it really been that long?) when Sherlock had commented on John's enchiladas.

"How about Efrain's?" John suggested.

Sherlock's face split into a brilliant grin, and the intense look of joy in his eyes left John momentarily breathless. "That sounds marvellous."

"Well then," John said, when he remembered how to breathe, "shall we?"

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock was in high spirits when he rolled out of bed on Friday morning. He had spent the previous day with John, who, although still somewhat skittish, seemed to have finally accepted Sherlock's apology. Sitting on John's lap had been far less dull than Sherlock had initially anticipated. He had spent his time cataloguing every sensation he could... The smell of John's sweat mingling with the faint citrus aroma of his morning cup of Earl Grey tea; the way John's shirt wrinkled under Sherlock's fingertips, the cotton smooth and cool to the touch, even as the heat of John's chest bled through; the faint flush that spread up John's neck when Sherlock traced light circles on his back; the deep blue flickering of John's iris and the dilation of his pupils; the slight shifts of John's legs underneath Sherlock; the quiet huff of John's breathing and thrum of his heartbeat.

Then they had gone out for lunch. John had ordered enchiladas and commented on how they compared with his own recipe, and, apart from one somewhat awkward conversation, it had been like normal. John wouldn't kiss Sherlock, and still seemed shy around him; but he smiled at Sherlock over the chips and salsa while Sherlock rambled on about his biology class, and being together - being John and Sherlock - was comfortable again.

They had gone back to the office together and spent the afternoon in companionable silence. When John's office hours were over, Sherlock hugged him goodbye and walked to his room where he just laid on his bed for 57 minutes, thinking of John and smiling.

His good mood disappeared quickly however, when he arrived at his biocomputing class on Friday morning.

.x.x.x.x.x.

When Sherlock entered the classroom, he was irritated to find someone was sitting in his typical seat. Of course. Jim was still persisting. Could the man not get a hint? Probably not any more than Sherlock could - that is to say, not at all. It didn't help that Sherlock still found Jim attractive... No, for fuck's sake, he was not going to think about this.

Sherlock found a seat across the room from Jim and started setting up his laptop. He was plugging in his power cord when John came in, and the momentary distraction was enough for him to be surprised when he straightened up to find someone sitting in the seat next to him.

"Hi," Jim said. He worried at his lip.

"Go away," Sherlock growled.

When it became apparent that Jim was not going to move, Sherlock unplugged his laptop and proceeded to move to a different seat.

Jim followed him. "Look, I'm just-" Jim grit his teeth together and closed his eyes as he drew in a sharp breath. He looked a bit more controlled when he opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, but his mouth was still set in a grimace. "I'm just trying to be... _friendly_, Sherlock."

"Well, piss off. I don't want you near me." Sherlock could feel rage bubbling up in his chest. Why was he reacting this way? Jim was annoying, yes, but shouldn't be anything he couldn't deal with. But... Sherlock had hurt John once by underestimating Jim's pull on him. He'd not make that mistake again.

John locked eyes with Sherlock from his place at the front of the room, but he didn't move toward the arguing students. He looked calm, but there was a hint of worry in his expression that made Sherlock uneasy.

"I don't suppose I can convince you to choose a different seat?" Sherlock asked Jim pointedly.

Jim furrowed his brow. "Look." He paused, smiling thinly. "You're still in my group. We have to work together - can we just _try_ to get along?"

"No," Sherlock snapped, as he slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and made his way to the exit. "I'll see you after class, John," he tossed over his shoulder, in a gentler tone. John just stared at him as he stalked out the door.

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_You can't avoid him forever. JW_**

**_Yes, I can. -SH_**

**_Without committing a felony? JW_**

**_I can drop the class. -SH_**

**_Sherlock, this is ridicu_**  
**_Sorry. Accidentally hit send. Can we talk about this? JW_**

**_No. -SH_**

**_What do you mean, no? At the very least, you need a teacher signature to drop the class. JW_**

**_No, I don't. I just need Mycroft's. -SH_**

**_Sherlock, this is non-negotiable. Meet me in the lobby. JW_**  
**_Are you pouting? JW_**  
**_I'm in the lobby. JW_**  
**_Sherlock?_**  
**_Are you coming or not?_**  
**_Fine. I'm not waiting any more._**  
**_Call me if you decide to stop acting like a spoiled brat. JW_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

John stomped down the hall to Greg's office. He didn't exactly want to be meeting with Greg right now; but it was their weekly appointment, and John prided himself on being where he'd said he'd be.

Like in the lobby, for over an hour, waiting for his no-good-boyfriend...

John sighed deeply as he raised his hand to knock on Greg's door. This was what he got for dating a teenager. The idea of expecting Sherlock to act mature was laughable, at best. Besides, when did Sherlock ever react positively to ultimatums?

Before his fist could connect with the wood, though, the door flew open. "Hey. You're... Uh, early."

"How's it going?"

Greg hesitated just a beat too long.

"What? You okay, Greg?"

Greg shook his head before trekking back over to his desk and sitting down heavily in his office chair. John settled into the stuffed armchair, which had a strangely light box of shortbread cookies sitting on the arm.

"So how are things with Sherlock?" Greg asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Pretty shitty, to be honest. He's trying to drop our class."

"I heard."

"You... heard? Seriously? Is he trying to go around me to get your signature, now?"

"No, it's not - Mycroft called me. He... wanted me to talk to you. Both of you."

John sighed and rubbed his temples with his right hand. The department chair was giving him relationship advice. And that wasn't even his biggest problem with the bureaucracy. Mycroft was the Associate Dean. John was working under his boyfriend's brother, for God's sake.

"Oh, stop panicking," Greg chided.

"I'm not panicking."

Greg merely raised a single eyebrow.

"Okay, fine. Look, he... he's so damn infuriating. He's cocky and irritating and... he's a teenager! Why the hell am I dating a teenager? Why did I ever think this was a good idea?"

Greg pursed his lips and his brow wrinkled in thought. "Don't think you ever did, actually. As I recall, you thought this was a terrible idea from the beginning."

John snorted. "Well. Yes."

"Is it worth it?"

John's eyes snapped back to Greg's. There was something in his voice that made John think the question wasn't entirely about Sherlock. "I don't know."

Greg flashed a thin-lipped smile before turning to study the door handle. "Jenny cheated on me. A year ago."

It took a moment for Greg's words to register. "What?"

"Sherlock was the one who told me about it. Ever since then, things have been... strained."

John just blinked a few times as the information sunk in. "Oh, God," he breathed, "I'm so sorry."

"It's just... Is it worth it? Because we've been trying, for almost a year now, and it just feels... I'm not sure it's worth it any more."

John shut his eyes. Was Sherlock worth it? What did he get from being with Sherlock? Could he stand being alone again? No, best not to think like that. Better to leave a bad relationship than to suffer through it out of fear of loneliness.

He flexed his leg muscles. No pain today. Not since Tuesday, actually. John had barely glanced at his cane in the past few days. Even after Sherlock's hissy fit during class and their subsequent argument over text, John hadn't felt weak; just irritated.

He thought of the afternoons in his office, with Sherlock working on his homework on the couch, insulting the students who were just looking for an easy A, and helping those who showed an effort. It had been years since he'd been able to share that kind of quiet companionship with someone. Or not so quiet, some days. Sherlock liked to ask questions.

John pictured Sherlock leaning over a table in the lobby, fingers restlessly tapping on the plywood, eyes glittering with manic excitement, as he rattled off the highlights of his latest research interest. John recalled the flash of a grin as Sherlock waved his hands in grand swirling gestures, talking about an article he'd read on the most recent robotics advancements, citing some video of an uncanny Japanese automaton with movable lips that mimicked her observer's expressions. John remembered the joy that bubbled up in his chest on seeing Sherlock with his eyes lit up in fascination. Sherlock was as passionate as John had once been (might still be, on a good day).

And then, of course, there was the kissing. John felt a blush rise to his cheeks at the memory of Sherlock straddling him on his couch, grinding against John with increasing fervor...

Greg cleared his throat loudly and John snapped out of his reverie. "Sorry. What..."

"Thinking about Sherlock?" Greg was carefully avoiding eye contact, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

"Yeah." John thought back to Greg's original question. "I think it is. Worth it, I mean."

Greg smiled, a bit sadly. "Is it..." It wasn't quite a question.

"Look, I should... I should go, yeah? Good luck with Jenny." John stood stiffly and after a moment's hesitation, thrust his hand out to Greg, who rose from his chair and clasped it. John pulled Greg forward into a brief hug before stepping back and flashing a pained smile at his friend.

"Thanks." Greg smiled back at John, but his eyes were dark.


	16. Recovery

_**Chapter 16: Recovery**_

"Just give me the damned signature, Mycroft," Sherlock growled, slamming his hands onto Mycroft's desk and looming over his brother with his most intimidating stare.

Anyone else would have been cowed. But Mycroft merely smiled blandly and cleared his throat. "Do sit down, little brother. You'll ruin your posture if you keep hunching like that."

Sherlock pouted for a moment before collapsing in the stuffed chair in front of Mycroft's desk with a soft whumpf. "Why, exactly, won't you sign my petition to withdraw from the class?"

Mycroft sighed. Probably making some snide internal comment about Sherlock's relative maturity. "This isn't something you should do lightly, Sherlock."

Sherlock jumped up in his chair, folding his legs into himself and gripping the arms furiously. "I'm not doing it _lightly_," he hissed. "I've given the decision exactly much thought as it merits."

Mycroft tsked. "Sherlock, sarcasm is not going to help in this case. You need to discuss this with Dr. Watson."

Sherlock fumed silently. "I will. Once I have your signature."

"No. He will not forgive you if you drop the class - _his_ class - without discussing it with him first." Mycroft leaned back in his plush leather office chair, slowly rolling an intricately designed fountain pen between his fingertips. It was a high quality pen, with a gold inlay, likely worth more than John's annual salary. Obviously a gift from an alumnus, as Mycroft would never buy something so useless. "Isn't your relationship on shaky enough ground as it is?"

"That's not my fault. He thought I was _cheating_ on him. I hadn't expected Jim to start groping me."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow and his lips twitched in amusement. "And what exactly _were_ you expecting, Sherlock? Going to a classroom alone with him." He snorted derisively. "You were obviously anticipating some sort of seduction attempt."

"That's ridiculous."

Mycroft simply shot Sherlock an incredulous look.

"It doesn't _matter_," Sherlock protested. "I don't wish to take the class any longer. Isn't that enough?"

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Sherlock."

Sherlock leapt out of the chair in a flurry of limbs, throwing his arms up to the ceiling in frustration. "I never would have taken the class in the first place if John hadn't been teaching it!" He stopped, frustrated, his arms dropping to his sides, but his head still cocked defiantly, sneering down at his older brother. "It was just an excuse to spend more time with him. There's no point in continuing if it's going to harm our relationship rather than further it."

Mycroft shot his brother a pointed look. "Don't you think you ought to tell him that?"

"I don't see why I can't just drop it now and explain later."

"You know as well as I do that he won't see it that way. It's not going to take any more effort on your part to discuss this with him before making it official. So, no, Sherlock. I'm not signing your petition until it also has Dr. Watson's signature."

Sherlock sighed. Mycroft was right. The git. "Fine. But I don't have to like it."

Mycroft's lips twitched in that infuriating expression he put on whenever things went as planned. "I never expected you to."

Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket for the fourth time, and he barely managed to keep from reaching into his pocket and pulling out his mobile. Mycroft raised an eyebrow when he saw Sherlock's eyes dart downwards.

"Best get back to your boyfriend. I believe he's waiting for you."

Sherlock grimaced before turning and striding out of the office with a flourish. The receptionist smirked knowingly, as always, before turning back to her Blackberry, and Sherlock made sure to slam the door loudly behind him.

He ran down the stairs and found an unoccupied corner of the underground courtyard below the engineering center. He sat on the cement, back pressed up against the cool concrete wall of the courtyard, clutching his knees to his chest. He pulled out his mobile and checked his missed text messages.

_**Sherlock, this is non-negotiable. Meet me in the lobby. JW **_  
_**Are you pouting? JW **_  
_**I'm in the lobby. JW **_  
_**Sherlock?**_

He should reply. Tell John he was sorry. He simply stared numbly at the glowing rectangle of light emanating from the phone in his palm.

He closed his eyes and pictured John's face: his mouth twisted in a fond smile, the creases around his eyes, blond hair tamped down by his bike helmet, the patch of stubble just below his right ear that he always seemed to miss while shaving.

Maybe John would be better off without Sherlock always hanging around. If Sherlock dropped the class and stopped seeing John entirely. They could both go back to the way things were before. Sherlock would be alone again.

No.

Sherlock got to his feet, legs slowly regaining feeling through pinpricks of sensation. He was halfway to the lobby stairs when his phone buzzed once more.

**_Are you coming or not?_**

Sherlock composed a reply, then deleted it; tried again, and deleted it again. He tapped out a simple "Yes", his thumb lingering on the send key, when another text came through.

**_Fine. I'm not waiting any more._**

No. That wasn't fair. He needed time to explain. John shouldn't be angry with him.

**_Call me if you decide to stop acting like a spoiled brat. JW_**

"No!" The word burst from his chest, grinding against his vocal chords so that the inside of his throat felt raw, as though rubbed with sandpaper. His cheeks were burning and his vision had gone a bit fuzzy around the edges. When he looked up, he saw an older student, sandwich raised halfway to his mouth, staring at him from a nearby bench.

This was ridiculous. He would wait for John in his office, then. And he would explain, and John would have to listen. John owed him that much.

With a swirl of his coat, Sherlock stalked off towards the lifts.

.x.x.x.x.x.

When John came back to his office from his meeting with Greg, he was more than a little surprised to find Sherlock sitting stiffly on the couch inside, waiting for him.

"John."

"What... Why are you here?" John swallowed and closed the door behind him before turning back around to face Sherlock.

Sherlock was gazing back at him from narrowed eyes.

"I'd like to drop the class."

John sighed. "Yeah, and I'm sure you've already gone to Mycroft and gotten his signature-"

"No. Well, yes. That is, I tried to." Sherlock paused and looked down at his hands. "He said no."

John raised an eyebrow, attempting nonchalance. "Oh?"

"He thought I should explain myself first." Sherlock's eyes flicked up to John's, briefly, before settling back on his lap.

John walked a few steps over to his desk chair, but didn't sit down.

"So. Yes. An explanation." Sherlock swallowed. "I want you, not your class."

"Well, it was never really about the class, was it?"

Sherlock looked up sharply. "I don't want Jim. You know that, don't you?"

John sagged as he leaned back against his desk. "No, not really."

"I want you. John..."

John froze as Sherlock took a deep breath and rose to his feet. He walked forward until he was less than a foot away from John, pressing into his personal space. Heat was radiating off his body and the soft rustling of his shirt was almost soothing, as Sherlock hesitantly reached out a hand and grasped John's upper arm.

"I don't want Jim. Because... he's me. I mean. He's like me. He's brilliant, and emotionally detached, and we think the same way. I don't... He's fascinating, and I like... I like seeing that. Seeing him. Seeing how he's like me. I feel like... Like I can see myself. In him. Like I'm reaching into my own brain, somehow, and pulling out a reflection, another human being. Shaped like me but different. The same... topology, if not the same form. An isomorph, to put it in computer terms. We are isomorphs. The same pathways, but cosmetically different. Examining those differences reveals our similarities, and..." He closed his eyes, briefly, squeezed John's arm. Whether he was trying to reassure John, or himself, John wasn't sure.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and John felt like they were cutting into him. "I feel like by knowing Jim, I get to know myself. But I don't want to be with him. I don't want..." He withdrew his hand and turned away from John, towards the sofa.

Sherlock was pacing now, back and forth, his long legs carrying him across the room in a few strides, before he twirled around nervously and headed back over the same patch of carpet.

"What?" John prompted, after a few minutes of silent pacing.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and looked back up at John as if he were just remembering that he was there. "I... I need something different. Someone who isn't like me. Someone who thinks in a different way. John, you... You teach me about myself not by being like me. By being different."

He shook his head and looked back down at his feet, resuming his traversal. "It's not... Maybe, if I had met Jim first - but it's irrelevant. Jim doesn't make me better. You..." He lifted his eyes from the floor and met John's, coming to a stop in front of him once more. "You make me want to be better."

John's breath caught in his chest.

"No one has ever accepted me before. Just as I am. Without wanting me to be different. Even Mycroft. He wanted me to blend in, to be like the others, to be normal. Jim accepts me, but... I don't like who I am when I'm with him."

Sherlock bit his lip, eyes darting about the room, but never meeting John's gaze, as if afraid of what he might find there. His arms were crossed defensively against his chest.

"John, you make want me to be the best version of myself. And I want that too, I do. I want to be... myself. But more. The best me." Sherlock's eyes finally rose to meet John's. "Does that... do you understand?"

John nodded mutely and reached forward. He smiled up at Sherlock before burying his face in his neck and wrapping his arms tight around his waist. He could feel the tension melting from the younger man's body as he returned the embrace. For a long time they just stood there.

"Thank you," John finally said, still holding on tight.

"For what?" came Sherlock's muffled reply.

"For being you."

Sherlock snorted and turned his face slightly to breathe soft patterns into John's scalp. "Well, that's a first," he mumbled into John's hair.

John tightened his grip and smiled into Sherlock's shoulder.

John started pulling back, and Sherlock followed him, not wanting to lose contact, but he seemed to get the hint when John removed his arms from Sherlock's waist to grip his shoulders, pushing him away gently. "I'm glad you like the person you are when you're with me."

"I am too."

John laughed, and Sherlock grinned back at him, and suddenly it felt as though there were a static charge crackling between them. When their lips met, John wasn't exactly surprised, but he wasn't entirely calm, either. As he let his eyes drift closed and felt his tongue swipe over Sherlock's, he realized that he no longer felt the fear and hesitation that had bloomed in his chest the last time Sherlock had gotten this close.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock wasn't really sure when he had started kissing John, but he realized in a jolt that he was _not supposed to be doing this_ and pulled back abruptly. "I'm sorry," he said breathlessly.

John just blinked. "What? Why are you sorry?"

"I wasn't... I kissed you." Sherlock stuffed his hands into his pockets. He wasn't sure they could be trusted not to reach for John.

"Oh. Yes, you did." John considered. "I guess I don't mind so much anymore."

Sherlock grinned. "Well, then. Do you... mind if I continue?"

"No. I suppose I don't mind." John's returning smile made warmth spread through Sherlock's chest.

"I do... care for you."

John said nothing in response, just hummed and leaned forward.

Sherlock hesitated, not allowing his lips to meet John's. "Do you not want me to say it?"

John stopped in his pursuit of another kiss and blinked in surprise. "I don't mind."

"Are you sure? Because I can stop..."

John smiled. "Shut up and kiss me."

Sherlock sighed into John's mouth as he curled his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of John's neck. His left hand slipped down to John's collarbone, sliding underneath the starched collar of his shirt. He could feel fingers pressing into his sides, drawing trails down his ribs, past the hem of his t-shirt, finally reaching the warm flesh of his belly and gliding upwards again. They scorched his flesh as they went. A strangled moan escaped from his mouth. "John..."

John just kept kissing and lightly touching, gliding his fingers over Sherlock's belly in shaky circles.

Sherlock pulled back a fraction so his mouth was no longer pressed against John's. "I do, though," he said, when John opened foggy eyes and his brow furrowed in concern. "I mean it."

John was still for a moment, considering. "I mean it too."

"Mean what?"

John simply smiled, studying Sherlock for a few moments, his eyes fluttering back down to moist lips. "You talk too much."

"Oh, is that so? You don't like it when I talk?"

"Sherlock," John chided.

"Yes?"

John grinned. "I was serious about the shutting up part."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, peering at John through eyes half-shuttered. "I see."

John leaned forward and whispered in Sherlock's ear. "Do you?" His breath was hot against Sherlock's neck, lips hovering just millimetres away from Sherlock's sensitive ear lobe.

Sherlock squeaked. There was no other word for it.

John pulled back, startled, and then he started laughing.

"Stop that! I didn't... Don't mock me!"

John grabbed Sherlock in an embrace, still shaking slightly from the effort of holding back his laughter. "I'm not mocking you. I just... You sounded like a puppy getting its tail stepped on."

Sherlock growled, and then both of them were giggling.

"So, would you care to join me for a walk?" John asked, eyes sparkling, and a grin flickering about his lips.

Sherlock pouted. "I'm not your dog."

John stepped back, folding his arms against his chest, piercing gaze softening into a caress. "No, you're not."

Sherlock leaned forward and hooked his thumb into the loop of John's trousers. "But I am yours."

John's smile was wide and sincere, and the corners of his eyes crinkled up in that way they had, the way that made Sherlock feel a bit weak in the knees.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John replied, still smiling. "Dinner sounds great."

.x.x.x.x.x.

Greg had spoken to Jenny two nights ago. He was still thinking about the dishes he had forgotten to pack when he entered Mycroft's office on Monday morning, revised grant proposal in hand.

"No, Sherlock. You need to think about how your actions affect others."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, just slightly, before snapping, "This is not something to do on a whim!"

He sighed heavily and motioned Greg to come in, who had been watching in amusement.

"Sherlock. Not now. I will see you on Saturday. Mummy is cooking pot roast. I - Sherlock. No... No, _you_ can tell her that."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose as he hung up the phone. "I pray I never have children of my own."

Greg chuckled as he slid the sheaf of papers over Mycroft's desk and settled into the plush arm chair facing Mycroft. He could have sent a digital copy, but Mycroft seemed to enjoy marking comments in red ink. It made Greg think of his old college days, back before everything had been digitized.

Mycroft's gaze flickered across to Greg's left hand, still resting lightly on the grant proposal. The pale line of skin on his fourth finger felt like a blazing neon sign to Greg. _Failure._

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Thank you for speaking with John. I understand that he and Sherlock are doing... well."

Greg flashed a small smile before letting his eyes drift back to his unadorned finger. It had been two days. He kept forgetting, touching his finger throughout the day and expecting the cool pressure of a gold band.

A warm hand covered his own lightly, obscuring his line of sight. Greg's eyes snapped up to Mycroft's. His face was blank.

"How are your classes going?" Mycroft asked, his voice perfectly even.

Greg tamped down the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble out of his chest. "As well as can be expected."

"Well, if you ever need to... discuss the curriculum... I am at your disposal."

A laugh escaped, sharp and choked-off, sounding too much like a sob for comfort. But Greg was grinning now, and the tightness squeezing his chest had loosened its grip, just a bit.

"Thanks," Greg said, and meant it.


	17. Resolution

_**Chapter 17: Resolution**_

"Mugs are in the left top cabinet," John said, gesturing with his pen distractedly.

"I've always been rubbish with this kind of kettle. I wish you had a proper electric kettle."

"Sorry." John flipped through the form in front of him, parsing the legalese.

"John?"

John looked up from the papers in front of him. "Yeah?"

"Earl Grey?"

"Oh. Right. Actually, lemon zinger for me. I don't need the caffeine right now."

Sherlock hummed and the sound of clinking china drifted out of the kitchen.

When John finally scrawled his signature on the paper, he looked up to see Sherlock opening the tea box, a serious expression on his face. When he noticed John's gaze on him he smiled, but did not turn to look.

"Tea's just about ready."

John padded over to Sherlock and leant casually against the kitchen counter.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over to the paperwork laying on the table before returning his focus to the box of tea in his hands. "Thank you."

"I'll miss you on Monday."

Sherlock looked up now. "Well. We can't have that, can we?" A smile lingered over his lips as he lifted the kettle and poured a splashing stream of hot water into the two mugs on the counter. "Care to join me for dinner?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"There are several places fairly close to campus. We could walk to the Hill."

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's as he set the kettle back on the burner. "Good. Let's do that."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as John kissed him. He made a noise of protest when John finally drew away.

"Tea," John commanded, as he grabbed both mugs and started for the living room.

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_Any plans this weekend? JW_**

**_Doctor's exam. -SH_**

**_Is that innuendo? JW_**

**_No. But if you'd like to give me an examination after the medical doctor is finished, I won't protest. -SH_**

**_Examination, huh? Well, I could give you the first draft of the 4303 final. JW_**

**_Very funny. You are a paragon of wit. -SH_**

**_I try. JW_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_I_**  
Message deleted

.x.x.x.x.x.

**_Done at the doctor's. -SH_**

**_Want to see a movie? JW_**

**_What did you have in mind? -SH_**

**_I don't know. Maybe that Oz one. JW  
Is that a no? JW_**

**_Sorry. I'm not well-apprised of popular culture. If that's what you wish to see, I will go. -SH_**

**_But you'd rather do something else? JW_**

**_Yes. -SH_**

**_Ever seen Star Trek Next Gen? JW_**

**_Is that a movie? -SH_**

**_That settles it, then. I'll pick you up at 3pm. JW  
Bring a change of clothes. JW_**

**_Planning a sleepover, are we? -SH_**

**_Maybe :) JW_**

.x.x.x.x.x.

Back in his dorm room, Sherlock glanced at his watch, which read 14:53. John had said he'd be by at 15:00 to pick him up. His stomach was rolling over itself fitfully. He pawed through his overnight bag one more time. He'd packed and unpacked his laptop, his violin, two different experiments-in-progress, his violin, his French textbook, and his violin again. He stood up abruptly and started pacing back and forth over the floor.

Sherlock fisted his fingers in his scalp, tugging at dark strands. He despised waiting. He couldn't check on any of his experiments, as he wouldn't be done by the time John arrived. There was no point in booting up his laptop for seven minutes. If he went down to the parking lot now, he would simply have to deal with awkward looks and wind chill. Sherlock reflected bitterly that seven minutes was the worst amount of time to have to wait for anything. Long enough to be irritating, but not long enough to get anything useful done.

Sherlock shoved the window open, shivering in the cool draft, and lit a cigarette. Before he had the chance to inhale, however, he saw a familiar car in the parking lot and a blond head walking towards the dormitory entrance. He pulled out his mobile to send a text.

**_Stay. I'll be down in a minute. -SH_**

Sherlock raced breathlessly down the stairs with his garment bag bumping against his hip as he ran.

"John."

"Sherlock." John was smiling, his head tilted to one side, his eyes crinkled and his mouth curling in affection.

"Hello."

"We're not very good at this small talk thing, are we?" John said, biting back a laugh as they walked back to the car. "So how was the doctor? You didn't terrorize him too much, did you?" He smiled at Sherlock as he slid into the driver's seat.

Sherlock was silent for a moment as he got in and buckled his seatbelt. "I don't have to keep going every three months. To the doctor's."

John said nothing, just turned the key in the ignition and put the car in drive.

"I've been clean for over a year, now."

John glanced over at Sherlock briefly before turning his eyes back to the road. "Clean?"

"Well," Sherlock said, "not counting the cigarettes. Obviously."

John was silent for a few more moments as they waited for the light to change. "Good."

"Good?"

"It sounds like you're happy about it."

"I suppose I am."

John bit at his lip as he pulled up to a stop sign. "You, ah, plan to stay that way?" He was silent for a moment, busy scanning the oncoming traffic. "Clean?"

Sherlock thought back. He missed the blazing clarity that amphetamines gave him; the pure rush of allowing his brain to run at one hundred metres per second without tripping over itself or getting slammed by sensory input.

But he knew it would kill him, sooner or later, and now he had a reason to be careful.

"Yes. I do."

Sherlock hadn't realised how tense John had become until he saw him relax. His hands unclenched on the steering wheel, his shoulders receded into the seat, and his smile became softer.

"Thanks."

"For what?"

John's eyes flicked from the rear view mirror over to Sherlock. "For... telling me." He took a deep breath, flicking his turn signal as he changed lanes. "I want to know these things."

"Even if it ruins our date?"

John laughed. "You're not going to ruin our date that easily."

Sherlock smirked. "No?"

"Nope."

Sherlock peered closely at John's expression, but he seemed perfectly sincere. He let his eyes slip shut and his head fall back against the headrest. They spent the remainder of the drive in companionable silence.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock had been more than willing to snuggle with John on the couch and disparage the special effects, plotlines, and ludicrous technobabble of John's favorite science fiction show. They both giggled over Captain Jean Luc Picard's obvious English accent. "See?" John said. "Proof that in the future, England finally conquers France."

But now it was getting late, and John was getting more and more nervous about his original plan to have Sherlock stay the night.

Were they moving too fast? Would it be too much?

His thoughts were interrupted by soft lips pressed to his neck.

"Is it time for bed, yet?" Sherlock asked.

Sherlock looked up at John with a soft smile, his cheeks flushed and his eyelids half-closed.

"If you want," John said. "I'm not tired."

"Neither am I."

John must have paused for just a fraction too long, blinking stupidly down at his boyfriend, as Sherlock's eyes opened fully, his smile turned to a smirk, and he tangled his hands in John's hair and dragged him closer.

This kiss was different from the ones they'd had before. No longer tentative like those first kisses, locked away behind closed doors in John's office, but neither were they frenzied and sloppy like on their first date. Sherlock dragged his tongue slowly, deliberately, across John's lower lip, and John opened his mouth willingly, letting his own tongue flicker out to brush against Sherlock's.

Suddenly Sherlock broke away. "Oh! There's something I've been wanting to try. Do you have any mints?"

John blinked.

"Gum?"

"Sherlock, what-"

"See, you start with it in your mouth, and then I use my tongue to take it from you."

John tried to restrain his giggle, but it was too late. Sherlock's expression changed from excitement to confusion to irritation to barely concealed amusement, until finally he said, "John! This is a _scientific_ investigation! How can we expect reliable results if you don't take it _seriously_?"

And then both of them were giggling. Sherlock started laughing so hard that he lost his balance and fell off the couch, dragging John with him.

"Ooof," John grunted, when he fell on top of Sherlock, their legs still tangled together.

"Bed?" Sherlock suggested.

And John realized that he was lying on top of Sherlock, and he could feel... Well, Sherlock.

Sherlock's erection was pressing into his thigh, painfully obvious even through the cotton of his trousers.

"John?"

John blinked, snapping out of his reverie. "What?"

"You'll have to get off me, first."

"Oh!" John felt his face heating and was sure that he was blushing furiously. He rolled off of Sherlock and onto his back. The two of them were now side-by-side, resting on the living room floor.

John sat up first, offering Sherlock his hand as he used the table for leverage to get to his feet.

When they both stood, Sherlock didn't release John's hand, keeping his palm clasped firmly between long fingers.

"I, ah, I'll take the couch. You can have the bed."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow in amusement. "John," he said, in his _I know you're not that much of an idiot_ voice.

Sherlock leant down (why did he have to be so damn tall?) and John lost himself in the slide of lips and tongue, warm fingers slipping into the hair at the base of his scalp, the faint huff of Sherlock's breaths on his upper lip and cheek, the tingling taste of peppermint and coffee and the acrid remnants of tar from Sherlock's morning cigarette.

"You really need to stop smoking," John mumbled, pulling away.

"Worried about my health, doctor?"

John grimaced. "More like worried about my taste buds. You taste foul."

"Well, you don't have to kiss my mouth..." Sherlock gazed down at John with something like hunger in his eyes.

John's heart stuttered in his chest. He tugged gently at their joined hands and started striding purposefully towards the bedroom door.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Sherlock practically attacked John, nimble fingers flying across his chest, unbuttoning his shirt hurriedly.

John struggled to help - he didn't want Sherlock to get frustrated and start ripping the buttons - but he could barely get his hands on his shirt before Sherlock batted his hands away, growling. He started walking John backwards as he roughly pushed John's shirt off his shoulders and tossed it behind him. He pulled John's undershirt over his head, yanking roughly over John's chin and outstretched arms and letting it drop carelessly to the floor. Sherlock's fingers ghosted lightly over John's scar before roaming over the rest of John's chest and back.

"You seem a bit impatient," John managed to gasp out between kisses.

Sherlock placed his hands against John's shoulders and shoved gently, and the backs of John's knees collided with a soft surface - his bed, he realized belatedly. John tumbled against the mattress and Sherlock crawled on top of him, his eyes drinking John in, before that mouth descended once more, this time nibbling on John's neck.

"Are you," oh God, Sherlock's tongue was distracting, "sure about this?"

Sherlock merely grunted and reached for John's belt buckle.

Behind the haze of want and chorus of ecstatic shouting in John's head, alarm bells were going off.

"Wait," he gasped, pulling away from Sherlock's insistent mouth. "Condoms-"

"I have some," Sherlock stated gruffly, his voice low and rumbling. He propped himself up on one elbow, and never breaking eye contact, pulled two foil packets and a bottle of lubricant out of his jacket pocket. He tossed them onto the nightstand before pulling off his jacket and tossing it on the floor.

John swallowed, gaze flickering between Sherlock and the nightstand. "Well. Good."

Sherlock simply smirked in response, before crawling down the bed to resume his assault on John's jeans. He unlatched John's belt and yanked it free with a soft slither of leather against denim, casting it aside carelessly before running his fingers lightly over John's rounded belly.

Sherlock started kissing a line down John's chest, towards his navel, licking the cleft of his belly button and mouthing the trail of golden hair on his abdomen that grew thicker as it went down.

And then Sherlock was undoing the button and zipper on John's jeans, and tugging them down his hips, and there was a warm pressure and moist breath caressing John through his underwear.

John moaned encouragingly, and then in frustration as Sherlock retreated.

"I..."

John's vision cleared somewhat as his eyes refocused on Sherlock. He was leaning back, still kneeling over John, but his expression was tentative.

"I haven't done this before," he managed, once John's gaze was focused on him.

"Well, I haven't either."

Sherlock regarded John suspiciously.

"I mean, I haven't... I haven't done much with men."

"But you have copious experience with women," Sherlock countered.

"Well, yeah, but," John protested, "it's not like I'm going to compare or something."

"Of course you will!" Sherlock snapped. "It's what people do."

"I've never gotten a blow job from someone as outrageously sexy as you," John tried.

Sherlock seemed to soften at that, and he cracked a smile. "Oh?"

"And at this rate, I'm never going to," John teased. "Do you need me to fire the starting gun, or something?"

Sherlock frowned slightly, still hovering, so John grabbed the nape of his neck and dragged him back to his mouth.


	18. Closure

_**Author's Note**_

We've finally reached the end. This is the last proper chapter; the next chapter is an epilogue (which will be posted tomorrow). Again, thank you so much for all of your favorites and reviews; I absolutely loved reading all your comments. This is my first novel, and I'm so glad I could share it with you guys. :)

The beginning of this chapter has been edited to meet fanfiction dot net rating guidelines. If you want to read the explicit version, I've posted it on livejournal and archiveofourown (both under username _ureshiiichigo_).

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**Chapter 18: Closure**_

John's calves were still hanging off the foot of the bed, so he inched his way backwards, dragging Sherlock with him, and shimmying further out of his jeans as he went.

Sherlock started to work his way down John's body: mouthing along his jawline, pausing to lick his Adam's apple, biting gently at his collarbone, and then sliding down to his breast bone. Sherlock seemed more hesitant and less self-assured the lower he got, and John did his best to moan more emphatically when Sherlock did something that felt good.

As Sherlock got lower down, his movements became more frantic, until he was practically clawing at John. He growled, and it sounded more like an utterance of frustration than arousal.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Sherlock glared back at him. "Nothing."

John sat up, hauling Sherlock up with him. "Hey, I have nothing against angry sex, but can we maybe try something else for our first time? I don't want to get bitten."

"I'm not angry!" Sherlock snapped.

John raised an eyebrow. "Hate to see you when you're really pissed off, then."

Sherlock turned his head, his lips flattening into a thin line. He started to pull away, but John reached for him. Sherlock half-heartedly smacked John in the side with his free hand.

John grabbed Sherlock's hand as it lingered on his torso and started rubbing circles into the base of his wrist. "Hey, stop that. Come here." He gathered up Sherlock with his left arm and pulled him close until they were lying side by side in the bed, wrapped up in each other. He waited a few minutes for Sherlock's breathing to even out.

"What's going on?" John asked. "Really? And don't say it's nothing."

Sherlock pouted. "I'm not..." He grimaced and pursed his lips, struggling for words, his eyes carefully directed away from John.

Finally, Sherlock spoke, his voice little more than a whisper. "What if you hate it?"

John let out a relieved laugh. "I'm not even sure that's possible."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm serious!"

John pulled Sherlock closer to him. "It doesn't have to be perfect, you know. It's sex. Sometimes it's messy and awkward, and that's okay. You don't have to make me claw the sheets. Maybe just try to make me giggle."

Sherlock gave John a perplexed look.

John snickered. "See? You're doing just fine. And you know, if you're afraid of making a fool of yourself, I can always go first." He grinned cheekily and kissed Sherlock soundly. After a breathless moment of lips and teeth and tongue, he pulled back, eyeing Sherlock, who was still fully dressed. "Either way, you're wearing far too many clothes."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh in response and nodded, a smile softening the sharp angles of his face.

.x.x.x.x.x.

When John finally came to, he was lying on the bed in a tangled heap, Sherlock wrapped around him possessively. He lay there for a few moments, soaking in the warmth of skin and the smell of sweat and sex.

After a few minutes, Sherlock shifted, his fingers paving a gentle trail down John's chest.

"Mmm," John managed.

"That was... good," Sherlock admitted, a hint of pride in his voice. "We should do that again."

"Not right away, I hope," John teased. "I think I'm all shagged out."

Sherlock giggled.

John was too exhausted to do much more than flop back on the bed and crawl under the covers. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, pulling him close.

"You're like an octopus."

Sherlock smiled sleepily. "Too many tentacles?"

John smiled as he rearranged Sherlock's gangly limbs around him.

"No. Perfect number."

The last thing John noticed before drifting off to sleep was the gentle in and out of Sherlock's breaths, and the warm chest against his own.

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**I love  
**_Message deleted

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**Are you going anywhere for spring break? -SH**_

_**Wasn't planning on it. JW**_

_**So what are you doing with your time off? -SH**_

_**I only get Friday off, actually. Unlike you lazy students. JW**_

_**So you'll be at your office all week? -SH**_

_**I suppose so. JW**_  
_**Why do you ask? JW**_  
_**Sherlock?**_  
_**Don't make me tell your brother about what you did to his umbrella. JW**_

_**Don't you dare. -SH**_

_**:) JW**_

_**I was just wondering if I should plan a trip to London. -SH**_

_**Oh? JW**_

_**I suppose a week spent at home would be nice. -SH**_

_**Home? So you are going, then? JW**_

_**John. Surely you know what I mean when I say "home." -SH**_

_**England? JW**_

_**The answer should be obvious. -SH**_

_**Forgive me if I am a bit skeptical. JW**_

_**Would you like me to bring you lunch on Monday, or shall we go out? -SH**_

_**Either way works for me. :)**** JW**_

.x.x.x.x.x.

When John got to his office at quarter after nine on the first day of spring break, Sherlock was seated at a hallway table, waiting for him.

"Took you long enough."

John blinked. "What are you - shouldn't you be off enjoying your break?"

Sherlock's face flickered in a smile. "That was the plan, yes."

John turned to unlock his office door as Sherlock strode up casually. "Plan?" John asked, once he managed to fumble his key into the lock.

"I find spending time with my boyfriend to be quite enjoyable."

John frowned. "Even when he's ignoring you because he needs to get work done?"

"Even then," Sherlock agreed, but the twinkle in his eye and the slight quirk of his lips implied that he knew John was bluffing.

The click of the deadbolt sliding into place echoed in the empty space even more loudly than normal.

"So, are you going to invite me in for a coffee?"

John snorted and held the door open for Sherlock. "Be my guest."

Sherlock flopped onto his customary sofa bonelessly, crossing his arms under his head and his legs over the wooden arm. "Nice place."

"Thanks," John said, setting his laptop bag on the floor and settling into his office chair. "You should come here more often."

"That would be difficult," Sherlock said, "without the key. After all, I'm in here almost as often as you are."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but the administration tends to frown on cohabiting student-teacher office spaces." John glanced over to see Sherlock's reaction and was taken aback by his closed expression.

Sherlock was no longer looking at John and smiling; he was focusing intently on his laptop as he settled it in his lap and gingerly pried open the lid.

When Sherlock finally did speak, his voice was quiet. "I have an in with the administration, though."

"Good. I expect you to bring up the subject at your next family dinner."

Sherlock simply hummed in answer, but his smile had softened, and when John got up and walked over to place a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, he made no move to pull away.

"While you're over here, could you help me with something?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure, what's up?"

"I'm working on my abstract."

"Ah, yes, that's due next week, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, go on then," John prompted.

Sherlock's eyes flickered over John's lips before returning to his laptop screen. "What's the typical structure of this sort of thing? I know that there's the description of the problem you're trying to solve, an overview of existing research, and how your solution is unique... But I'm not going to have time to do anything original."

"Scootch," John said.

"Sorry?" Sherlock asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

John eased his hand in between Sherlock's lower back and the sofa cushion, gently lifting up until Sherlock got the hint and sat up. John slid in to sit behind him, his chest providing a pillow for Sherlock's head, his left arm slung over Sherlock's shoulder and chest. John stretched until he could access Sherlock's touchpad, and he moused over Sherlock's word document. "You don't need to do original research in your paper. You can do a summary of existing work and simply suggest where future research opportunities may exist. That seems like the most appropriate solution in this case."

Sherlock curled back into John's embrace, the fingers of his left hand entwining with John's right. "So I'll just summarise the journal articles I've read, then."

"Yep. Sounds like a plan. How many articles have you found so far? We can go over each and see which ones seem most relevant."

"I've found eleven so far. Let me pull them up." Sherlock squeezed John's hand briefly, before extracting his fingers and placing both hands on the keyboard. John simply sat in silence and watched Sherlock type.

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**John, I  
**_Message deleted

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**Do you ever miss seeing me in class? JW**_

_**Yes. -SH**_

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**I love you.  
**_Message deleted

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**I'm hungry. Want to grab dinner? JW**_

_**Baker's Street Pub appeals. -SH**_

_**You always complain about their fish and chips. JW**_

_**That's because they're not proper chips. -SH**_

_**So picky. JW**_

_**Indeed. I have particularly exacting taste when it comes to my boyfriends. -SH**_

_**They have to be older, shorter, and dumber than you? JW**_

_**Obviously. -SH**_

_**Jerk. JW**_

_**Obviously. -SH**_

_**Love you. JW**_

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath as he read John's words, and his eyes kept reading and rereading the message. He didn't know how to respond, and so he sat there for a few moments, before tapping out a reply with shaky fingers.

_**Obviously. -SH**_

_**So I'll see you at 7? JW**_

_**Obviously. -SH**_

_**Are you just going to keep saying obviously? JW**_

_**Obviously. -SH**_

.x.x.x.x.x.

**From:** DCBBC (Dallas Conference on Biostatistics and Biological Computing)  
**Sent:** Monday, April 22, 2013 4:52 PM  
**To:** Sherlock Holmes  
**Cc:** John Watson; Gregory Lestrade  
**Subject:** Abstract Submission  
**Attachment:** LightingTalkSchedule

Dear Mr. Holmes,

We have made our final selection of abstracts to be included in this year's lightning talks section. We are pleased to announce that your abstract has been accepted for inclusion in the conference. Please prepare a five minute presentation for Friday, May 24. The tentative schedule is attached. If your assigned time slot needs to be adjusted, we will contact you via the above email address.

Thank you for your interest. See you in May!

Sincerely,  
Hubert J. Farnsworth  
Neuroscience Department Chair  
UT Austin  
DCBBC

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**John  
**_Message deleted

_**I  
**_Message deleted

_**I'm an idiot.  
**_Message deleted

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**Did you mean it? -SH**_

_**Mean what? JW**_

_**We haven't said it since the fight. -SH**_

_**You mean, you haven't said it. JW**_

_**I'm sorry. -SH**_

_**Don't be sorry. You don't have to. JW**_

_**Yes I do**_

_**No, you really don't. JW**_

.x.x.x.x.x.

Saturday was quickly becoming John's favorite day of the week.

Although he never knew exactly what he'd be doing on any given Saturday, he always spent the evening with Sherlock. Sometimes, when Sherlock didn't have too much homework, they spent the evening at John's apartment. And sometimes, when John was feeling self-indulgent, John would suggest that Sherlock stay the night.

"Are you doing anything tomorrow?" John asked, as the credits to Casino Royale started to roll.

Sherlock blinked up at him from where his head was resting against John's shoulder. "I didn't have any plans, no." He snuggled closer to John, leaning across John's chest, his feet dangling over the arm of the sofa.

John just hummed, fingers tightening slightly around Sherlock's waist.

"And you?"

"No plans so far." John smiled down at Sherlock and brushed the curls away from his forehead with his free hand.

"Good."

Sherlock's eyes drifted shut.

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**I love you. -SH**_

_**Glad I finally have proof. :) JW**_

_**I'm going to steal your phone while you're sleeping and delete the evidence. -SH**_

_**I'd like to see you try. JW**_


	19. Research Proposal (Epilogue)

_**Author's Note**_

Much love to all my reviewers, and again to my betas, **_percygranger_ **and **_numberthescars_**. You guys are amazing.

.x.x.x.x.x.

_**Chapter 19: Research Proposal (Epilogue)**_

Fifteen hours was a terribly long time to be trapped in a car with your sort-of-boss and your boyfriend. John supposed he'd faced greater trials in his time in the army.

Maybe.

John wondered, not for the last time, why he'd ever thought inviting Sherlock along to the Dallas conference had been a good idea. But, surprisingly enough, Sherlock had turned in his abstract by the submission deadline and seemed dead-set on coming with.

"Why must we pass through Oklahoma? It's incredibly dull. Look, this must be the eightieth straight mile of farmland. No turns. No hills. Nothing. Just corn and cows." Sherlock was sprawled across the entire back seat, right foot propped up against the passenger side door, left arm folded under his neck, hand pillowing his head, the other idly toying with his seatbelt.

John reached into the back seat and poked Sherlock just above his left kneecap. "Quit your whining. And half of that was Kansas, I'll have you know."

Sherlock just groaned and flicked John's hand away. "Surely there are more useful ways of passing the time?"

"I know," Greg chipped in. "We can get a round going." He grinned at John before taking a deep breath and launching into an off-tune, but highly enthusiastic, rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

Sherlock grimaced and pointed out, "Stars do not, in fact, resemble diamonds."

John just smiled at Sherlock's reflection in the rear view mirror. "What next, Greg?"

"Oh, I know. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer..."

John cheerfully joined in as Sherlock tried to drown out the singing with arguments as to why that was the most irritating song ever invented.

John would have to start up "This is the Song that Never Ends" next.

.x.x.x.x.x.

When the car shuddered to a stop, Sherlock was momentarily confused. It was pitch-black outside, and the car clock blinked 3:07 back at him.

"Hey," John said in a low whisper, "I'm going to check into our rooms, okay? Wait here with Greg." After a moment's hesitation, he leaned across the armrest and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. Then the car door clicked shut and John was gone.

Sherlock stifled a yawn and blinked away his confusion. He was sitting in the passenger seat, where he'd been since they'd all shuffled after dinner in a tiny barbecue restaurant in north Texas. He must have fallen asleep midway through reading that article about bioluminescence on his mobile phone. They now appeared to be in the parking lot of the conference hotel in Dallas. Lestrade was snoring gently in the backseat.

It was Thursday, then. They'd left early Wednesday morning, Lestrade and John periodically swapping driving duty, playing silly car games and listening to audiobooks on CD. For some reason, Lestrade had been adamant that Sherlock not assist with the driving. Apparently, not having driven a stick shift before was some sort of disadvantage. No matter - Sherlock had been perfectly happy to spend the time reading journal articles on his mobile.

Lestrade stirred faintly in the back seat.

Sherlock turned to look at him. "We're here."

Lestrade grunted and blinked sleepily as he maneuvered himself into a sitting position. "What time is it?"

"Three."

"Where's John?"

"Checking into our rooms."

"Ah."

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock turned back to the front and absently flicked through his email inbox.

"So... How are you doing? Excited?"

"If by excited, you mean nauseous, then yes."

"Well, if you do throw up, don't get any on me," Lestrade joked.

"No promises. After all, I'm certainly not going to aim for John."

"What, you think vomit will put him off? He's seen worse."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed.

The dim lights of the parking lot cast a faint amber glow over the interior of the car. Sherlock reflected that it made everything look a rather sickly shade of yellow.

"Sherlock, are you..."

"Fine," Sherlock said.

"Because you don't really look..."

"I'm fine, Lestrade. Shut up."

"Having second thoughts?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I'm trying not to think at all." He sighed and tapped restless fingers on his thigh. "My brain will catch up sooner or later, though."

"And is that where the vomit comes in?"

"Fairly certain, yes." Sherlock rolled his head to look at Lestrade from the corner of his eye.

"Don't worry," Lestrade said. "It'll be good."

"Right. Thank you for the vote of confidence."

"No, really. I think he'll say yes."

Sherlock swallowed, his throat suddenly constricting. "He'd better."

_But what if he doesn't?_

Sherlock was still lost in thought when the driver's side door opened. "Our rooms are ready. Greg, you're in 431." He handed a key card to Lestrade and smiled at Sherlock. "Come on, let's get some sleep."

.x.x.x.x.x.

The first thing Sherlock registered was light pressing against his eyelids, and warmth pressing against his chest.

The remnants of sleep floated away from him in a hazy mist.

"Good morning."

Sherlock simply hummed in response and blinked sleepily as he took in the scene before him. John's arms were wrapped around his torso, and their legs were tangled together. The duvet was nowhere to be seen. John's eyes were open, roaming over Sherlock's face, a soft smile lifting his mouth and creasing the corners of his eyes. Their faces were only a few centimetres apart, hot puffs of breath tickling Sherlock's cheek whenever John breathed out.

Sherlock revelled in the sensations. He'd only managed to stay at John's flat overnight a handful of times in the months since they'd begun dating, and every time was a little bit different. He'd woken up before John the first few times with an awkward morning erection that prompted him to scramble into the bathroom in a panic. The time after that, he'd woken to gentle kisses, and John hadn't seemed to mind Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock wondered if he could expect a similar reception this morning. They'd fallen into bed without even brushing their teeth the night before, too exhausted to do anything more than change into their pyjamas and crawl under the covers.

"Sleep well?"

Sherlock's voice was still scratchy with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven. We need to get dressed if we're going to get any breakfast."

"Not hungry." Sherlock felt his smile widen as he let his eyes wander down John's body. A strip of tanned skin peeked intriguingly between John's pyjama top and bottoms. Sherlock wriggled in John's embrace so that his hand could creep closer to the exposed skin.

John grinned, even as he captured Sherlock's hand in his own before it could venture any lower. "Well, _I_happen to be hungry. Besides, we'll miss the opening ceremonies if we don't get going."

"I could feed you..."

John snorted and started untangling himself despite Sherlock's best efforts. "Hate to break it to you, but there's not much nutritional value in semen."

Sherlock sighed dramatically and crawled out of bed after John. There was something immensely satisfying about trying to grope John as he dressed. Sherlock wasn't sure which he enjoyed more: touching John so intimately, or irritating him in retaliation for thwarting Sherlock's plans.

John glared at Sherlock as he attempted to pull on his trousers while Sherlock did his best to bury his hands in John's pants. "Sherlock, stop pestering me and get dressed."

"Where's the fun in that?"

John smirked at Sherlock as he extracted his hands from his underwear. "If you behave, maybe we can come back to the room early tonight."

"How early?"

"How well can you behave?"

Sherlock smiled. He did enjoy a challenge. "I think you'll find I can be exceptionally agreeable when I put my mind to it."

"Just, remember, no-"

"Yes, John, I _remember_."

"I don't like it any more than you do-"

At this Sherlock snorted.

John glared and continued, "Dallas, Texas is not as accepting as Boulder, the Hippie Capital of the Nation."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You needn't keep reminding me."

"I'd just prefer we don't get lynched."

"Not even a little?"

John grinned. "Oh, shut up, and get dressed."

.x.x.x.x.x.

The conference was both better and worse than Sherlock had expected.

On the one hand, there was a higher concentration of intellectuals than Sherlock was used to seeing.

On the other hand, they were all so very dull.

Sherlock had dressed in his charcoal suit and off-white shirt, at John's suggestion. It was well-fitted and formal enough that he wouldn't be mistaken for a child. But he still saw people's quizzical expressions when they saw him. He was almost definitely the youngest presenter at the conference.

Since Sherlock and John had woken up too late to eat breakfast, John had stood in line at the coffee shop for a cup of scalded English Breakfast tea and a blueberry scone. Sherlock did not finish his watery espresso.

The opening ceremonies involved some old professor blathering on about the _importance_of biological computing and the immense future of biostatistics and nanotechnology. Sherlock kept awake by studying the conference-goers around him (hopeless inferiority complex, wants to sleep with his professor, trying to get a promotion, came at his adviser's insistence, only here to find a new job, having an affair with one of the speakers, here on scholarship, actually meant to go to a wedding but got turned around in the hotel lobby). Then there was a muted sort of clapping, and then John was smiling down at Sherlock.

"You didn't catch a word of that, did you?"

"Oh, I caught a few. Important, biology, computer..."

John grinned as though Sherlock was the funniest person in the world. It almost made Sherlock's chest ache.

John automatically reached out for Sherlock's hand before remembering where he was and turning it into an awkward "come here" gesture. Sherlock smirked and nudged John with an elbow as he stood.

"Come on, let's grab lunch," John said. "Greg said he'd save us a table."

Well, even if the vast majority of presenters were dull, at least there was one person here who was brilliant. Sherlock smiled back at him.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Friday was the day of the lightning talks - namely, the day that Sherlock would be presenting his paper.

For some reason, Sherlock couldn't stop twitching, no matter how many cups of coffee he drank. He would kill for a cigarette. Damn John and his insistence on going cold turkey.

"Yes, Sherlock, for the seventeenth time, I'll be there when you give your talk."

"Seventeen is a gross exaggeration. I've only mentioned it a few times. Three at most."

"Five, actually."

"Fine!" Sherlock snapped, fidgeting with his tie. "It doesn't matter. It's only five minutes long, and I'm not even presenting original research. No one will care."

John sighed even as Sherlock batted his hands away from straightening Sherlock's suit jacket. "I care. Greg cares."

"You don't count." Sherlock frowned as John leveled him with a glare. "You know what I mean!"

"Right."

"Look, it's just... I need you to be there."

John flashed a crooked smile in Sherlock's direction. "Didn't realize you needed me. That worried?"

"I'm not worried! I just..." Sherlock took a breath, held it, and waited for the pounding in his chest to slow down.

John raised an eyebrow. "It's fine if you need moral support."

"I don't need - just _be there_."

"You'll do fine, with or without me. And yes, I'll be there." John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He glanced over at the wall clock and his eyes widened fractionally. "Oh, shit, it's already ten thirty? I have to go."

Sherlock picked up John's laptop case as he scrambled for his jacket and room key. "Have fun," Sherlock said. "Talking. To biologists."

John hurriedly pressed a dry kiss to his lips as he grabbed his case from Sherlock. "Yes, I will. See you at lunch."

Sherlock merely sighed as the door clicked shut following John's departure, and absently ran his fingertips over the velvet-covered lid of the small box in his pocket.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Sherlock seemed oddly nervous on Friday, and John wasn't sure why.

Sherlock's lightning talk went fine. As he'd complained about to no end, his paper had contained a summary of existing research rather than any original work. Thankfully, it was well-presented and the section on future research opportunities had interested several of the professors on the submission review committee. Sherlock had collected no fewer than twelve articles on cellular computing and DNA-based programming, and his presentation was concise and articulate.

But even after it was over, Sherlock still had an air of twitchiness and kept flinching when John accidentally brushed against him.

John leaned over to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "I know I said no public displays of affection, but you don't have to cringe when I bump into you."

Sherlock just cast an irritated glare John's way before striding forward to an empty seat and pulling out his cellphone.

John abandoned the buffet line and went over to join him. "Do you want to eat dinner in the room?"

Although it was quickly masked by a blank expression, John saw a hint of surprise in Sherlock's startled glance. "Why?"

John cracked a smile. "Thought it would be nice, that's all."

Sherlock pursed his lips before getting to his feet. "After you."

.x.x.x.x.x.

They had been in the room for several hours when John finally noticed the small box on his bedside table.

"Sherlock-" John called from the bed.

Sherlock was just coming out of the shower, one towel slung across his hips and another scrubbing vigorously against his scalp.

John lifted the small velvet box from the table. "What is this?" It looked like a jewelry box - something to store a woman's necklace or pair of earrings.

Or a ring.

Sherlock simply blinked and looked out the window, his eyes focusing on something in the distance. There was a tense set to his shoulders that hadn't been present a moment ago. "Why don't you open it and find out?" His tone was light, but the words were carefully clipped and measured.

John stared at the small box, heart suddenly racing. What if it were... But there was no point in working himself up with what-ifs.

"Come here." John reached out with his free hand and Sherlock met his eyes. John saw a flash of fear lurking in Sherlock's expression, and John's heart thudded painfully in his chest. "Sit down."

Sherlock let the towel he'd been using to dry his hair fall to the floor in a heap. He padded over and sat down next to John on the bed, not quite touching. John drew his arm around Sherlock's waist and pulled him close. "Is it... a gift?"

"Of a sort."

John brought the box over to Sherlock's lap and laid it on Sherlock's towel-clad thigh. He stared down at the box silently for a moment before turning his eyes back to Sherlock's. "Do you want me to guess?"

Sherlock sighed. "Just open it, John."

John managed a smile as he poked Sherlock in the ribs. "You're making it sound like a death sentence, Sherlock. Is it really that painful to give me a gift?"

Sherlock's lips twitched up into a smile. "A bit."

John took a steadying breath before lifting the lid of the jewelry box.

Inside was a key. John felt a wave of relief, a twinge of disappointment, and then a spark of eager curiosity.

"What is this?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Come, John, even you must recognise a key when you see one."

John poked Sherlock in the side. "Yes, I know it's a _key_. What does it unlock?"

Sherlock smirked. "My chastity belt."

"Hate to break it to you, but I broke that lock a while ago."

"Mycroft will be so disappointed."

"Hmmm. Okay, I've got it - key to a new bike lock! I hope it's a u-lock. They're more secure."

Sherlock managed to keep a perfectly straight face. "Nothing says love like a u-lock."

John snorted. "Maybe not. Okay... Car key to my new Jaguar?"

"If you're looking for a new car, I could speak with Mycroft..."

"What? No! Best leave him out of it." John pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Key... to a safety deposit box containing a million dollars?"

"No, I'm giving that to Greg. He'll need it after the divorce."

"How considerate of you. Oh, I know - it must be the key to the Space Shuttle! Sherlock, you shouldn't have!"

"It's the key to my flat."

John forgot to breathe for just a moment. "What?"

Sherlock fidgeted next to him, eyes fixed on the key in John's hand. "Mycroft helped me move in last week."

John blinked back at him. "I thought..."

"Your lease is up in July, is it not?" Sherlock was looking at John now, his grey eyes sharp.

"How did you... Yes. Yes, it is."

Sherlock bit his lip before breaking into a shy smile. "I was thinking of getting a flatmate. Perhaps someone older, responsible... Who could help me with my homework, keep things tidy."

"So you're looking for a tutor and a maid?"

Sherlock grinned at John. "A cook would be nice, too."

John closed his eyes, suddenly dizzy from the weight of Sherlock's... offer? Request? "God. I don't... this is..."

Sherlock placed his hand over John's, fingers curling tight over the key in John's palm. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock gazing back at him, eyes glinting in the lamp light. John's breath caught in his throat.

"You don't have to decide straight away. Obviously. But... this," he squeezed John's hand, "is yours either way. Never know when you'll need to break into my flat, do you?"

John stayed silent, simply raising his free hand to Sherlock's cheek and stroking his thumb over the cheekbone, gaze lingering on Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock leaned forward until their mouths were inches apart, warm breaths mingling. John could practically taste the mint of Sherlock's toothpaste, and suddenly _practically _was not enough, as warmth spread through John's belly.

Sherlock's lips were soft and familiar, his tongue sliding delicately against John's lower lip, and he wanted_more_. John wanted everything, all of this man. And his eyes flew open as he thought of the key still clutched in his fist, of what it represented.

John pulled back, set the key gently on the nightstand, and pushed Sherlock back onto the bed.

"Yes."

Sherlock smiled and pulled John down on top of him.

.x.x.x.x.x.

Three months later, on a warm morning in late August, John straightened his clothing as he got ready for the first day of fall semester. Peering into the bathroom mirror, John adjusted his collar, smoothed down his sandy brown hair, and checked to make sure there was nothing in his teeth.

Sherlock poked him in the side as he leaned over to spit in the sink. "Shove over." He ran his toothbrush under the tap while John craned to peer around him.

"Hurry up, you're not even dressed! You're not making me late on my first day..." He gave Sherlock a light shove as he left the bathroom, and received an annoyed glare in return. "If you're not ready by 8:45, we're leaving without you."

John strode out to the living room and pulled open the front door just as the doorbell rang.

"Hey, Greg. Ready for the first day?"

Greg grinned back at him. "Ready to retire, more like."

"Sherlock's still getting ready. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"Thanks, I'd love one."

Sherlock hurtled out into the living room as John was draining the last of his tea.

"Morning, Lestrade. I see you had a pleasant evening last night. Not forced to sleep on the sofa. Your date went well, then?"

Lestrade turned bright red and coughed. "Shall we get going, then?"

Sherlock chattered to Greg during the entire car ride about his fall class schedule. He kept talking as they jogged up towards the Engineering Center entrance. Greg finally made his escape when they reached the elevators up to the office tower. "See you at dinner, then. Sherlock, try not to aggravate all of your teachers this year."

"Well, I can _try_..."

John glanced down at his watch. The numbers 8:57 blinked back at him. Damn.

"I'm going to be late. See you in an hour," John said, pressing a hasty kiss to Sherlock's cheek and turning to dash towards room 265. He was held back by a hand on his wrist.

Sherlock grinned back at him. "Oh, no you don't." The kiss was firm and warm and John smiled against Sherlock's lips. "Now you can go," Sherlock added, letting go of his arm and tossing him a wink before turning and striding down the corridor.

John ran into the classroom, and took a look at the students filling the seats, chatting with each other, checking email on smart phones, or playing games on laptops. He grinned as he walked up to the front row.

At 9:00am sharp, John took a deep breath, smiled widely, and addressed the room.

"Good morning, ladies and the occasional gentleman. I hope you're as excited as I am to be here, but I imagine it depends on how many of you have had your morning coffee. I'm John Watson, and I'll be your instructor this semester."


End file.
